"Ah, bah! You never were better off than under the rule of Oudinot."
"You are a German," said the Hungarian to the Austrian; "what think you of our brave Kossuth?"
"I consider him a pragmatical ass," replied the Austrian curtly.
"Perhaps in that case," interposed the Lombard, with a sneer that might have done credit to Mephistopheles, "the gentleman may feel inclined to palliate the conduct of that satrap of tyranny, Radetski?"
"What!—old father Radetski! the victor in a hundred fights!" cried the Austrian. "That will I; and spit in the face of any cowardly Italian who dares to breathe a word against his honour!"
The Italian clutched his knife.
"Hold there!" cried the Piedmontese, who seemed really a decent sort of fellow. "None of your stiletto work here! Had you Lombards trusted more to the bayonet and less to the knife, we might have given another account of the Austrian in that campaign, which cost Piedmont its king!"
"Carlo Alberto!" hissed the Lombard, "sceleratissimo traditore!"
The reply of the Piedmontese was a pie-dish, which prostrated the Lombard on the floor.
"Gentlemen! gentlemen! for Heaven's sake be calm!" screamed Pettigrew; "remember we are all brothers!"