“Not five minutes ago.”
“Where?”
“In the Corso, going toward the Venetian Gate.”
“But he has been wounded.”
“Not enough to keep him from the saddle.”
“He was on horseback?”
“Yes, Excellency. Oh I beg you, go and warn your husband of his danger.”
“He must know,” Hera said, absently, her mind dwelling on the assurance that Mario was alive and would live.
“He does not know the worst,” the other told her. “I went to demand protection—soldiers to guard him. At the Questura they almost mocked me. The mob has broken through the military lines and is sweeping this way.”
“Will they attack the palace?”