EPISODES OF THE REVOLT AND THE WAR

The treachery of Pericles—­the white umbrella—­the death of Rinaldo Guidascarpi

The king crossed the Mincio.  The Marshal, threatened on his left flank, drew in his line from the farther Veronese heights upon a narrowed battle front before Verona.  Here they manoeuvred, and the opening successes fell to the king.  Holding Peschiera begirt, with one sharp passage of arms he cleared the right bank of the Adige and stood on the semicircle of hills, master of the main artery into Tyrol.

The village of Pastrengo has given its name to the day.  It was a day of intense heat coming after heavy rains.  The arid soil steamed; the white powder-smoke curled in long horizontal columns across the hazy ring of the fight.  Seen from a distance it was like a huge downy ball, kicked this way and that between the cypresses by invisible giants.  A pair of eager-eyed women gazing on a battle-field for the first time could but ask themselves in bewilderment whether the fate of countries were verily settled in such a fashion.  Far in the rear, Vittoria and Laura heard the cannon-shots; a sullen dull sound, as of a mallet striking upon rotten timber.  They drove at speed.  The great thumps became varied by musketry volleys, that were like blocks of rockboulder tumbled in the roll of a mountain torrent.  These, then, were the voices of Italy and Austria speaking the devilish tongue of the final alternative.  Cannon, rockets, musketry, and now the run of drums, now the ring of bugles, now the tramp of horses, and the field was like a landslip.  A joyful bright black death-wine seemed to pour from the bugles all about.  The women strained their senses to hear and see; they could realize nothing of a reality so absolute; their feelings were shattered, and crowded over them in patches;—­horror, glory, panic, hope, shifted lights within their bosoms.  The fascination and repulsion of the image of Force divided them.  They feared; they were prostrate; they sprang in praise.  The image of Force was god and devil to their souls.  They strove to understand why the field was marked with blocks of men who made a plume of vapour here, and hurried thither.  The action of their intellects resolved to a blank marvel at seeing an imminent thing—­an interrogation to almighty heaven treated with method, not with fury streaming forward.  Cleave the opposing ranks!  Cry to God for fire?  Cut them through!  They had come to see the Song of Deborah performed before their eyes, and they witnessed only a battle.  Blocks of infantry gathered densely, thinned to a line, wheeled in column, marched:  blocks of cavalry changed posts:  artillery bellowed from one spot and quickly selected another.  Infantry advanced in the wake of tiny smokepuffs, halted, advanced again, rattled files of shots, became struck into knots, faced half about as from a blow of the back of a hand,