by the officer on horseback, who challenged Luigi to give up
the letter, which was very plainly being thrust from his hand into his
breast. The officer found it no difficult matter to catch him and pluck
the letter from him; he opened it, reading it on the jog of the saddle as
he cantered off. Luigi turned in a terror of expostulation to ward
Barto's wrath. Barto looked at him hard, while he noted the matter down
on the tablet of an ivory book. All he said was, "I have that letter!"
stamping the assertion with an oath. Half-an-hour later Luigi saw Barto
in the saddle, tight-legged about a rusty beast, evidently bound for the
South-eastern gate, his brows set like a black wind. "Blessings on his
going!" thought Luigi, and sang one of his street-songs:--"O lemons,
lemons, what a taste you leave in the mouth! I desire you, I love you,
but when I suck you, I'm all caught up in a bundle and turn to water,
like a wry-faced fountain. Why not be satisfied by a sniff at the
blossoms? There's gratification. Why did you grow up from the precious
little sweet chuck that you were, Marietta? Lemons, O lemons! such a
thing as a decent appetite is not known after sucking at you."

His natural horror of a resolute man, more than fear (of which he had no
recollection in the sunny Piazza), made him shiver and gave his tongue an
acid taste at the prospect of ever meeting Barto Rizzo again. There was
the prospect also that he might never meet him again.

CHAPTER IX

IN VERONA

The lieutenant read these lines, as he clattered through the quiet
streets toward the Porta Tosa:

'DEAR FRIEND,--I am glad that you remind me of our old affection, for it
assures me that yours is not dead. I cannot consent to see you yet. I
would rather that we should not meet.

'I thought I would sign my name here, and say, "God bless you, Wilfrid;
go!"

'Oh! why have you done this thing! I must write on. It seems like my past
life laughing at me, that my old friend should have come here in Italy,
to wear the detestable uniform. How can we be friends when we must act as
enemies? We shall soon be in arms, one against the other. I pity you, for
you have chosen a falling side; and when you are beaten back, you can
have no pride in your country, as we Italians have; no delight, no love.
They will call you a mercenary soldier. I remember that I used to have
the fear of your joining our enemies, when we were in England, but it
seemed too much for my reason.