them, mad for
slaughter, and mounting a small brass gun on the barricade, sent the
charges of shot into the rear of the enemy. He kissed the black lip of
his little thunderer in, a rapture of passion; called it his wife, his
naked wife; the best of mistresses, who spoke only when he charged her
to speak; raved that she was fair, and liked hugging; that she was true,
and the handsomest daughter of Italy; that she would be the mother
of big ones--none better than herself, though they were mountains of
sulphur big enough to make one gulp of an army.

His wife in the flesh stood at his feet with a hand-grenade and a rifle,
daggers and pistols in her belt. Her face was black with powder-smoke as
the muzzle of the gun. She looked at Rinaldo once, and Rinaldo at her;
both dropped their eyes, for their joy at seeing one another alive was
mighty.

Dead Austrians were gathered in a heap. Dead and wounded Milanese were
taken into the houses. Wine was brought forth by ladies and household
women. An old crutched beggar, who had performed a deed of singular
intrepidity in himself kindling a fire at the door of one of the
principal buildings besieged by the people, and who showed perforated
rags with a comical ejaculation of thanks to the Austrians for knowing
how to hit a scarecrow and make a beggar holy, was the object of
particular attention. Barto seated him on his gun, saying that his
mistress and beauty was honoured; ladies were proud in waiting on the
fine frowzy old man. It chanced during that morning that Wilfrid Pierson
had attached himself to Lieutenant Jenna's regiment as a volunteer. He
had no arms, nothing but a huge white umbrella, under which he walked
dry in the heavy rain, and passed through the fire like an impassive
spectator of queer events. Angelo's Swiss had captured them, and the mob
were maltreating them because they declined to shout for this valorous
ancient beggarman. "No doubt he's a capital fellow," said Jenna;
"but 'Viva Scottocorni' is not my language;" and the spirited little
subaltern repeated his "Excuse me," with very good temper, while one
knocked off his shako, another tugged at his coat-skirts. Wilfrid sang
out to the Guidascarpi, and the brothers sprang to him and set them
free; but the mob, like any other wild beast gorged with blood, wanted
play, and urged Barto to insist that these victims should shout the viva
in exaltation of their hero.

"Is there a finer voice than mine?" said Barto, a