It was an experience that asked a stout heart of Hera. In the cross-currents of her thought she realised that a signora from the world of ease and plenty was not a popular figure in that concourse. But there must have been that in her face which had power to touch those rugged hearts, angry though they were; and she met with no more annoyance than an occasional black scowl.
In the suburb of Villacosa she overtook Colonel Rosario’s regiment. The Bersaglieri were moving with the spirited swing that is their pride, canteens clanking, the long plumes of their hats waving, and the dust of the highway astir in their wake. By people who had a well-fed aspect they were greeted with pleased countenances, but in discreet silence; their less prosperous neighbours had only hisses and hoots for the uniformed marchers. Mothers held up their babes and cried, “Fire now, I beg of you.” Other women threw themselves on the roadside, pulled up tufts of grass, and made as if to eat them—a bit of theatricalism intended to typify the extremity to which they were reduced for food.
As Hera came up with the head of the column the Colonel chanced to look round; their glances met, and he smiled a cordial recognition. But a puzzled look succeeded the smile when Hera had passed ahead and he had seen the foam that whitened the rings of her horse’s bit and the flakes of it that dappled his chest. And she was riding yet as fast as she could in that teeming road. The sun had set when she turned into the Monza highway. An exodus from Milan had begun. She encountered a stream of vehicles loaded with the fugitives and their baggage; most of them were foreigners bound for the more tranquil air of near-by Swiss cantons.
A little longer and she was in the quarter of Milan’s new rich, without the walls—amid dwellings of an architecture that in Rome, Florence or Turin produces much the same impression. Every portico gate was bolted, no fountains leaped in the courts, blinds were drawn at the windows; nowhere in any of the grand houses was there sign of life. She could see the Venetian Gate a short distance ahead; but between her and it rose a barrier of howling men and women that reached from side to side of the road save for a narrow breach through which the refugees passed. Over the heads of the crowd she caught the glitter of a line of bayonets, and drawing near she heard the jibes and maledictions that were poured upon the soldiers. She found that she could proceed no farther. An hour earlier the King had declared Milan in a state of siege.
CHAPTER XXI
A CALL TO SERVICE
Hera found herself one of the hundreds of peaceful visitors shut out in company with the rabble that was eager to feed the furnace of rebellion. Awhile she sat her horse wondering what she might do to gain entrance to the city. There was no recourse but to make herself known to the guards and entreat them for leave to pass; and she was on the point of that appeal, which must have proved vain, when a burst of martial music and the acclaim a crowd gives marching men made her pause. She knew it must be the regiment of Colonel Rosario, and her heart leaped with gladness.
First the plumes and shining brass of the musicians came into view, then the figure of her father’s old comrade at the head of his men. For a minute she watched the Bersaglieri wheel into the broad highway and swagger toward the town; but when she saw the column halt before all of it had made the turning she rode as fast as she could through the ruck of men and vehicles to the Colonel’s side.
“Donna Hera!” the commander exclaimed, saluting her in military form and covering his amazement with a smile.
“They will not let me go on,” she told him without ado.
“And you are obliged to return to Villa Barbiondi to-night,” he added, as if comprehending. “That is a difficulty, to be sure, but one not insurmountable. For example, I will send Major Quaranta with you to the villa if you do not object.”