“You and I, father,” said the young man, “would like a little of that beatitude in this world too.”
Frank had now heard more than he had desired to hear; and, unhooking his sabre, he suffered it to clink at his heels as he boldly advanced towards the windows.
“Who have we there?” cried the tall man, advancing to the terrace, and challenging the stranger.
Frank replied, in French, that he was an Austrian officer, whose party had been waylaid near Varenna, and who had made his escape with a wounded comrade and a few others.
“So the shots we heard came from that quarter?” whispered the youth to the lady.
She signed to him to be cautious, and the tall man resumed,——
“This is a private villa, sir; and as yet, at least, neither an Austrian barrack nor an hospital.”
“When I tell you, sir,” said Frank, with difficulty restraining his passion, “that my comrade is dying, it may, perhaps, excite other feelings than those of national animosity.”
“You are a Hungarian?” asked the youth.
“What of that?” broke in the padre. “Tutti barbari! tutti barbari!”