“Excellency, go and warn your husband,” he entreated her. “In the face of his deadly peril he is alone—all alone. There is not a second to lose.”
While he spoke he turned her horse around.
“Of what would you have me warn him?” she asked, displeased with his meddling.
“Of that!” he answered, pointing to where the firing and human roar arose from the huddle of narrow streets. “It is no time for a lady to ride,” he added, offensively, “even—even if the Honourable Forza is not afraid to be abroad.”
“Signor Forza?” she repeated, puzzled to know his meaning.
“Yes, Excellency. Oh, I saw him not very far away,” he asserted, with an insolent effect of shrewdness.
A moment she looked him in the eye, conscious that in the lawless spirit of the hour, he had spoken as he would not have dared in a calmer day; but, eager for the news of Mario, she ignored the insult conveyed in the Austrian’s insinuating phrases and manner.
“The journals,” she said, “have it that Signor Forza is in the hospital, dying.”
“That is false. He is not in the hospital, and he is far from dying, if I am a judge.”
“When did you see Signor Forza?”