The sword of wealth

by Henry Wilton Thomas

“Napping!” she exclaimed, audibly; and then to herself: “At this critical moment! Napping when his daughter is in danger!”

Hera followed the margin of Old Adda, light of heart, receiving the joy of verdure, and forgetful of past trials in her new sensation of freedom. She breathed in the fragrance that blossoms gave the surrounding air. Bird voices, few the last time she rode that way, sounded all about. The poplars on either side of the river—grim black brushes a few weeks before—made two noble files of plumes quivering silver or green in response to every wandering breeze. The river was almost as quiet as the lake from which it flowed. Sparrows bathed in the dust and chased one another on the wing close to the ground. White vapours, floating in clearest blue, were motionless as painted clouds.

She passed idlers reclining on the greensward of the roadside—sun-burned men and women who, by the immemorial law of the season, should have been busy in the fields. She saw more idlers before the village tavern. They were gathered about a comrade who read from a big-headlined journal of Milan. The group would have received no attention from her but for one boisterous fellow who crossed the road calling out the news to a neighbour in his window. She heard distinctly the name of Mario Forza, but more than this she was not able to make out. Nevertheless, she had heard enough to send her back to the tavern. As she drew rein the men turned from the reader and one and all bared their uncombed heads. She asked the news from Milan, and the man who had been reading came forward, clearing his throat for a speech.

“Most excellent signora,” he began, “the bugle call has sounded, and throughout the length and breadth of our fair land the battalions of labour are marching. The sun of the social revolution has risen. The invincible industrial army—”

“Shut up, Pietro!” commanded a brawny blacksmith, snatching the journal from the orator’s hand. “If your Excellency would like to read,” he said, offering the paper to Hera.

While she cast her eye over the printed page some of the men gathered about her horse, their bronzed faces upturned to hers and upon them a dull expression of triumph in the story of riot and bloodshed that was unfolded. Presently they saw her start with catching breath, drop the paper to her side, and sit her saddle in silence a moment, oblivious of the many eyes upon her, and staring off in the direction of Milan.

“It is a fine uprising, Excellency, neh?” one of the men said, but Hera had only a nod of the head for reply.

She rode on, carrying an indistinct idea, gained from the huge captions, of a situation with which the Government found itself all but powerless to cope; of anarchy in Milan, of hundreds of men and women laid low or killed by the troops; but the announcement that loomed above all to her mind was that Mario Forza had been shot. “At this hour,” ran the account, “exact details are not obtainable. From what could be gathered concerning the deplorable incident, it appears that the mob in Cathedral Square was at the time stampeding before the charge of a detachment of the Ninth Cavalry. A woman whose name could not be learned, but who is said to be one of the rioters, was knocked down in the mad rush and would have been trampled to death by the horses but for the timely appearance and intrepid action of the Honourable Forza. He sprang in front of the advancing troopers, and catching up the woman in his arms was bearing her out of harm’s way, when a shot, evidently intended for the soldiers, was fired by one of the mob. The mark that the bullet found was Signor Forza. It was not known, however, that he was struck until he had borne the woman to a point of safety. Then he was seen to sway as if swooning, but some bystanders steadied him. He was conveyed to the General Hospital by a friend whose carriage stood by.”

Her instinct to go to him became a mastering purpose. Although she did no more than walk her horse for a while, she kept moving toward Milan. She reflected that the remaining distance was little more than two leagues and that she could travel it easily before dark. In a minute she was resolved, and speaking to her horse she set forward at a smarter pace. For the proprieties of the case she was in no mood to borrow care. He was wounded, perhaps unto death, and her one thought was to go to the hospital and be at his side. As she pursued her way, now in the sunshine of open road, now in the shade of a wood, she had time to consider what idle tongues might say, but it did not make her slacken speed or think of turning back.

On every hand her eye met evidence of the social recoil that had set in. Here, as in the neighbourhood of her father’s house, the farm labourers had been caught in the wave of revolt that surged from Milan. All the fields she passed were deserted. The taverns of the roadside were busy, and, however true the cry of bread famine may have been, there was no famine in juice of the grape and no scarcity of drinkers. In the village of Bosco Largo she heard again the name of Mario Forza. It fell from the lips of an impassioned ploughman haranguing a crowd of excited men and women. Two stern-visaged carbineers stood by, but their presence only fanned the flame of his speech.