His voice startled her now, as his eyes had startled her. A man in the crowd pressed against her roughly. Instinctively she caught hold of Artois’ arm.
“Yes, you had better take it,” he said.
“Oh, it was only—”
“No, take it.”
And he drew her hand under his arm.
The number of people in the Mercato was immense, but it was possible to walk on steadily, though slowly. Now that the balloon had vanished the crowd had forgotten it, and was devoting itself eagerly to the pleasures of the bar. In the tall and barrack-like houses candles gleamed in honor of Masaniello. The streets that led away towards the city’s heart were decorated with arches of little lamps, with columns and chains of lights, and the pedestrians passing through them looked strangely black in this great frame of fire. From the Piazza before the Carmine the first rocket rose, and, exploding, showered its golden rain upon the picture of the Virgin.
“Perhaps they have gone back into the Piazza.”
Hermione spoke after a long silence, during which they had searched in vain. Artois stood still and looked down at her. His face was very stern.
“We sha’n’t find them,” he said.
“In this crowd, of course, it is difficult, but—”