The way was blocked again. A detachment of the mob which took the soldiers unawares and succeeded in gaining the square had attempted to pull down the statue of Leonardo da Vinci. The rope was ready, but before they could throw it over the figure and haul it from the pedestal a battalion of infantry had arrived at double quick. As the insurgents retreated up Via Manzoni they filled the air with shouts of defiance, mingled with a hideous uproar of mocking laughter. It was the laughter of those who had taken up the cry, “On to the Supper! Down with the Supper!”
The words came distinctly enough to the ears of Mario and the Cardinal, in spite of the din all about, but they did not attach to them the meaning of the grinning mob. Had they grasped the purpose expressed in that grim cry they would have been keener to reach the Bernardine community to which they were bound, and for a more potent reason than that of caring for the wound of Mario Forza. For centuries the refectory of the convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie had held the painting by which the world knows Leonardo da Vinci best—his Last Supper. It had survived the periods of desecration begun by the monks themselves and ended by the French soldiers in 1796, under command of the general whose gift to the House of Barbiondi—the Napoleonic table—Tarsis prized so highly. The picture must have been lost but for the devoted service of other painters, who, with reverent hands, from age to age, brought back its beauty of form and colour. Now the monks were its guardians; and now it was a frenzied populace that would desecrate it—not in the old way, by neglect or rough usage, but by tearing it out of the wall and putting an end forever to the restorations.
Via Alberto was clear again, and the carriage moved forward, while the voice of the destroyers, growing fainter, sounded as a hoarse murmur behind La Scala Theatre. In Piazza Mercanti hands used to far heavier tasks laid hold of the horses’ heads and stopped the vehicle with a jerk that threw the Cardinal and Mario from their seats. The doors were flung open and jeering men and women surged about them.
“Make the gentlemen walk!”
“To the barricade with the carriage!”
“Come, let us see you use your legs!”
And the gentlemen would have walked but for the timely recognition of Mario by one of the masters of the situation. “Back, comrades!” he cried to them. “It is Mario Forza, the friend of labour.”
Quickly the horses were released, and the carriage rolled on amid “Vivas!” for the Honourable Forza. Without mishap Corso Magenta was attained, and they drew up at the portal of the convent. The chubby face and mournful eyes of Brother Sebastiano greeted the Cardinal, and the iron-bound door swung wide to him. Swift were the movements of the brothers when they realised what had occurred. Not only his Eminence under their roof, but with him the Honourable Forza, wounded and in need of succour! Suddenly the calm of the place was changed to bustling activity. Two of the brothers lugged a cot into a large high-ceiled room where sunshine entered, and the prior Sebastiano sent others here and there for liniment, water, lint for the bandage, and a flask of brandy.
“You have placed me in good hands,” Mario said to the Cardinal from the cot on which he reclined; “and I beg of you to retard your journey no longer. Here you may leave me and have no anxiety.”
“Of that I am certain,” the Cardinal agreed, with a nod of confidence to Brother Sebastiano. “Therefore I shall try for that train.” He looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes after the hour. That the delays to-day are of long duration is my hope; a forlorn one, yet I’ll pursue it, for to Como I must go.”