ked 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.

'You are with a band of butchers. If I could see you and tell you the
story of Giacomo Piaveni, and some other things, I believe you would
break your sword instantly.

'There is time. Come to Milan on the fifteenth. You will see me then. I
appear at La Scala. Promise me, if you hear me, that you will do exactly
what I make you feel it right to do. Ah, you will n