, jovially--could escape the risk of unpleasant mishaps,
and arrive at Trent and cities of peace by easy stages. He was marching
for the neighbourhood of Vicenza.

A little before dawn Vittoria came down to the carriage. Count Karl
stood at the door to hand her in. He was young and handsome, with a soft
flowing blonde moustache and pleasant eyes, a contrast to his brother
Count Lenkenstein. He repeated his thanks to her, which Pericles had not
delivered; he informed her that she was by no means a prisoner, and was
simply under the guardianship of friends--"though perhaps, signorina,
you will not esteem this gentleman to be one of your friends." He
pointed to Weisspriess. The officer bowed, but kept aloof. Vittoria
perceived a singular change in him: he had become pale and sedate. "Poor
fellow! he has had his dose," Count Karl said. "He is, I beg to assure
you, one of your most vehement admirers."

A piece of her property that flushed her with recollections, yet made
her grateful, was presently handed to her, though not in her old
enemy's presence, by a soldier. It was the silver-hilted dagger,
Carlo's precious gift, of which Weisspriess had taken possession in
the mountain-pass over the vale of Meran, when he fought the duel
with Angelo. Whether intended as a peace-offering, or as a simple
restitution, it helped Vittoria to believe that Weisspriess was no
longer the man he had been.

The march was ready, but Barto Rizzo's wife refused to move a foot. The
officers consulted. She, was brought before them. The soldiers swore
with jesting oaths that she had been carefully searched for weapons, and
only wanted a whipping. "She must have it," said Weisspriess. Vittoria
entreated that she might have a place beside her in the carriage. "It is
more than I would have asked of you; but if you are not afraid of her,"
said Count Karl, with an apologetic shrug.

Her heart beat fast when she found herself alone with the terrible
woman.

Till then she had never seen a tragic face. Compared with this tawny
colourlessness, this evil brow, this shut mouth, Laura, even on the
battle-field, looked harmless. It was like the face of a dead savage.
The eyeballs were full on Vittoria, as if they dashed at an obstacle,
not embraced an image. In proportion as they seemed to widen about her,
Vittoria shrank. The whole woman was blood to her gaze.

When she was capable of speaking, she said entreatingly:

"I knew his brother."

Not a sign