Ammiani was up with them.
'You are Barto Rizzo,' he spoke, half leaning over the man in his impetuosity.
Barto stole a defensive rearward step. The thin light of dawn had in a moment divided the extreme starry darkness, and Ammiani, who knew his face, had not to ask a second time. It was scored by a recent sword-cut. He glanced at the woman: saw that she was handsome. It was enough; he knew she must be Barto's wife, and, if not more cunning than Barto, his accomplice, his instrument, his slave.
'Five minutes ago I would have sworn you were a traitress he said to her.
She was expressionless, as if she had heard nothing; which fact, considering that she was very handsome, seemed remarkable to the young man. Youth will not believe that stupidity and beauty can go together.
'She is the favourite pupil of Bartolommeo Rizzo, Signor Carlo Ammiani,' quoth Barto, having quite regained his composure. 'She is my pretty puppet-patriot. I am not in the habit of exhibiting her; but since you see her, there she is.'
Barto had fallen into the Southern habit of assuming ease in quasi- rhetorical sentences, but with wary eyes over them. The peculiar, contracting, owl-like twinkle defied Ammiani's efforts to penetrate his look; so he took counsel of his anger, and spoke bluntly.
'She does your work?'
'Much of it, Signor Carlo: as the bullet does the work of the rifle.'
'Beast! was it your wife who pinned the butterfly to the Signorina
Vittoria's dress?'