LITMIR.BIZ

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kept him still.

      A warning call from Ugo Corte drew their attention. Close by the chalet where the first climbers of the mountain had refreshed themselves, Beppo was seen struggling to secure the arms of a man in a high-crowned green Swiss hat, who was apparently disposed to give the signorina's faithful servant some trouble. After gazing a minute at this singular contention, she cried—“It's the same who follows me everywhere!”

      “And you will not believe you are suspected,” murmured Carlo in her ear.

      “A spy?” Sana queried, showing keen joy at the prospect of scotching such a reptile on the lonely height. Corte went up to the Chief. They spoke briefly together, making use of notes and tracings on paper. The Chief then said “Adieu” to the signorina. It was explained to the rest by Corte that he had a meeting to attend near Pella about noon, and must be in Fobello before midnight. Thence his way would be to Genoa.

      “So, you are resolved to give another trial to our crowned ex-Carbonaro,” said Agostino.

      “Without leaving him an initiative this time!” and the Chief embraced the old man. “You know me upon that point. I cannot trust him. I do not. But, if we make such a tide in Lombardy that his army must be drawn into it, is such an army to be refused? First, the tide, my friend! See to that.”

      “The king is our instrument!” cried Carlo Ammiani, brightening.

      “Yes, if we were particularly well skilled in the use of that kind of instrument,” Agostino muttered.

      He stood apart while the Chief said a few words to Carlo, which made the blood play vividly across the visage of the youth. Carlo tried humbly to expostulate once or twice. In the end his head was bowed, and he signified a dumb acquiescence.

      “Once more, good-bye.” The Chief addressed the signorina in English.

      She replied in the same tongue, “Good-bye,” tremulously; and passion mounting on it, added—“Oh! when shall I see you again?”

      “When Rome is purified to be a fit place for such as you.”

      In another minute he was hidden on the slope of the mountain lying toward Orta.

CHAPTER V

       Table of Contents

      Beppo had effected a firm capture of his man some way down the slope. But it was a case of check that entirely precluded his own free movements. They hung together intertwisted in the characters of specious pacificator and appealing citizen, both breathless.

      “There! you want to hand me up neatly; I know your vanity, my Beppo; and you don't even know my name,” said the prisoner.

      “I know your ferret of a face well enough,” said Beppo. “You dog the signorina. Come up, and don't give trouble.”

      “Am I not a sheep? You worry me. Let me go.”

      “You're a wriggling eel.”

      “Catch me fast by the tail then, and don't hold me by the middle.”

      “You want frightening, my pretty fellow!”

      “If that's true, my Beppo, somebody made a mistake in sending you to do it. Stop a moment. You're blown. I think you gulp down your minestra too hot; you drink beer.”

      “You dog the signorina! I swore to scotch you at last.”

      “I left Milan for the purpose—don't you see? Act fairly, my Beppo, and let us go up to the signorina together decently.”

      “Ay, ay, my little reptile! You'll find no Austrians here. Cry out to them to come to you from Baveno. If the Motterone grew just one tree! Saints! one would serve.”

      “Why don't you—fool that you are, my Beppo!—pray to the saints earlier? Trees don't grow from heaven.”

      “You'll be going there soon, and you'll know better about it.”

      “Thanks to the Virgin, then, we shall part at some time or other!”

      The struggles between them continued sharply during this exchange of intellectual shots; but hearing Ugo Corte's voice, the prisoner's confident audacity forsook him, and he drew a long tight face like the mask of an admonitory exclamation addressed to himself from within.

      “Stand up straight!” the soldier's command was uttered.

      Even Beppo was amazed to see that the man had lost the power to obey or to speak.

      Corte grasped him under the arm-pit. With the force of his huge fist he swung him round and stretched him out at arm's length, all collar and shanks. The man hung like a mole from the twig. Yet, while Beppo poured out the tale of his iniquities, his eyes gave the turn of a twinkle, showing that he could have answered one whom he did not fear. The charge brought against him was, that for the last six months he had been untiringly spying on the signorina.

      Corte stamped his loose feet to earth, shook him and told him to walk aloft. The flexible voluble fellow had evidently become miserably disconcerted. He walked in trepidation, speechless, and when interrogated on the height his eyes flew across the angry visages with dismal uncertainty. Agostino perceived that he had undoubtedly not expected to come among them, and forthwith began to excite Giulio and Marco to the worst suspicions, in order to indulge his royal poetic soul with a study of a timorous wretch pushed to anticipations of extremity.

      “The execution of a spy,” he preluded, “is the signal for the ringing of joy-bells on this earth; not only because he is one of a pestiferous excess, in point of numbers, but that he is no true son of earth. He escaped out of hell's doors on a windy day, and all that we do is to puff out a bad light, and send him back. Look at this fellow in whom conscience is operating so that he appears like a corked volcano! You can see that he takes Austrian money; his skin has got to be the exact colour of Munz. He has the greenish-yellow eyes of those elective, thrice-abhorred vampyres who feed on patriot-blood. He is condemned without trial by his villainous countenance, like an ungrammatical preface to a book. His tongue refuses to confess, but nature is stronger:—observe his knees. Now this is guilt. It is execrable guilt. He is a nasty object. Nature has in her wisdom shortened his stature to indicate that it is left to us to shorten the growth of his offending years. Now, you dangling soul! answer me:—what name hailed you when on earth?”

      The fan, with no clearly serviceable tongue, articulated, “Luigi.”

      “Luigi! the name Christian and distinctive. The name historic:—Luigi Porco?”

      “Luigi Saracco, signore.”

      “Saracco: Saracco: very possibly a strip of the posterity of cut-throat Moors. To judge by your face, a Moor undoubtedly: glib, slippery! with a body that slides and a soul that jumps. Taken altogether, more serpent than eagle. I misdoubt that little quick cornering eye of yours. Do you ever remember to have blushed?”

      “No, signore,” said Luigi.

      “You spy upon the signorina, do you?”

      “You have Beppo's word for that,” interposed Marco Sana, growling.

      “And you are found spying on the mountain this particular day! Luigi Saracco, you are a fellow of a tremendous composition. A goose walking into a den of foxes is alone to be compared to you—if ever such goose was! How many of us did you count, now, when you were, say, a quarter of a mile below?”

      Marco interposed again: “He has already seen enough up here to make a rope of florins.”

      “The fellow's eye takes likenesses,” said Giulio.

      Agostino's question was repeated by Corte, and so sternly that Luigi, beholding kindness upon no other face save Vittoria's, watched her, and muttering “Six,” blinked his

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