her.  Speak to me of mothers!  I have cherished her for her splendid destiny—­to see it go down, heels up, among quarrels of boobies!  Yes; we have war in Italy.  Fight!  Fight in this beautiful climate that you may be dominated by a blue coat, not by a white coat.  We are an intelligent race; we are a civilized people; we will fight for that.  What has a voice of the very heavens to do with your fighting?  I heard it first in England, in a firwood, in a month of Spring, at night-time, fifteen miles and a quarter from the city of London—­oh, city of peace!  Sandra you will come there.  I give you thousands additional to the sum stipulated.  You have no rival.  Sandra Belloni! no rival, I say”—­he invoked her in English, “and you hear—­you, to be a draggle-tail vivandiere wiz a brandy-bottle at your hips and a reputation going like ze brandy.  Ah! pardon, mesdames; but did mankind ever see a frenzy like this girl’s?  Speak, Sandra.  I could cry it like Michiella to Camilla—­Speak!”

Vittoria compelled him to despatch his horses to stables.  He had relays of horses at war-prices between Castiglione and Pavia, and a retinue of servants; nor did he hesitate to inform the ladies that, before entrusting his person to the hazards of war, he had taken care to be provided with safe-conduct passes for both armies, as befitted a prudent man of peace—­“or sense; it is one, mesdames.”

Notwithstanding his terror at the guns, and disgust at the soldiery and the bad fare at the inn, Vittoria’s presence kept him lingering in this wretched place, though he cried continually, “I shall have heart-disease.”  He believed at first that he should subdue her; then it became his intention to carry her off.

It was to see Merthyr that she remained.  Merthyr came there the day after the engagement at Santa Lucia.  They had not met since the days at Meran.  He was bronzed, and keen with strife, and looked young, but spoke not over-hopefully.  He scolded her for wishing to taste battle, and compared her to a bad swimmer on deep shores.  Pericles bounded with delight to hear him, and said he had not supposed there was so much sense in Powys.  Merthyr confessed that the Austrians had as good as beaten them at Santa Lucia.  The tactical combinations of the Piedmontese were wretched.  He was enamoured of the gallantly of the Duke of Savoy, who had saved the right wing of the army from rout while covering the backward movement.  Why there had been any fight at all at Santa Lucia, where nothing was to be gained, much to be lost, he was incapable of telling; but attributed it to an antique chivalry on the part of the king, that had prompted the hero to a trial of strength, a bout of blood-letting.

“You do think he is a hero?” said Vittoria.

“He is; and he will march to Venice.”

“And open the opera at Venice,” Pericles sneered.  “Powys, mon cher, cure her of this beastly dream.  It is a scandal to you to want a woman’s help.  You were defeated at Santa Lucia.  I say bravo to anything that brings you to reason.  Bravo!  You hear me.”