"And when will the convocation take place?" asked Sante-Croce.
"Unfortunately not so soon—on the 3d of July," said the count, sorrowfully.
Angry murmurs arose.
"They wish to mock us," said a young man. "Radetzky's minions have murdered my brother; I demand revenge!"
"My mother was wounded at Corsa," said a second. "No compromises: war!"
"Yes, war to the knife!" shouted the whole assembly.
"One moment!" exclaimed Monte-Cristo, in a tone of command. "I know how angry you all are, and yet counsel you to reflect. A nation which is eager for independence, is strong and powerful, but your oppressors are as numerous as sands in the sea. You will conquer, Milan will be free; but when you have spilled your blood, and piled your bodies up like a wall, the allies upon whom you count will desert you. You will fall again into the hands of the enemy, and the heavy yoke will become heavier. Charles Albert, the king of Sardinia, will betray you as soon as his ends have been served. Do you still desire to carry out your ideas?"
Monte-Cristo's words sounded prophetic. The patriots could not dissimulate the impression they made. But their opinions did not change.
"And if the worst should come!" said one, courageously, "I would rather die than hesitate any longer. To arms!"
"To arms, then!" repeated the Marquis of Sante-Croce, solemnly, "and may God be with us!"