The youth was weeping like a girl.
“There,” said he, between his sobs. He lowered his head and pointed on the top, to some bunches of hair, sticking together with congealed blood.
The Duke passed his fingers softly through the hair to discover the wounds. He loved Carletto Grua, and had for him a lover’s solicitude.
“Does it hurt you?” he asked.
The youth sobbed more vehemently. He was slender, like a girl, with an effeminate face, hardly shaded by an incipient blond beard, his hair was rather long, he had a beautiful mouth, and the sharp voice of an eunuch. He was an orphan, the son of a confectioner of Benevento. He acted as valet to the Duke.
“Now they are coming,” he said, his whole frame trembling, turning his eyes, filled with tears, towards the balcony, from which came the clamours, louder and more terrible.
The servant, who had a deep wound upon his shoulder, and his arm up to the elbow all stained with blood, was telling falteringly how they had both been overtaken by the maddened mob, when Mazzagrogna, who had remained watching, cried out, “Here they are! They are coming to the palace. They are armed!”
Don Luigi, leaving Carletto, ran to look out.
III
In truth, a multitude of people, rushing up the wide incline with such united fury, shouting and shaking their weapons and their tools, did not resemble a gathering of individuals, but rather the overflow of a blind mass of matter, urged on by an irresistible force.