When she had taken her place at the table opposite Colonel Rosario, it seemed to her all the more urgent that some strong hand should curb their reckless course. Here she found herself in an atmosphere of cheerfulness, even gaiety, that was scandalously at odds with the gloom demanded by the terrible situation. Actually, the wife who had forsaken her husband because of some foible was able to sit there and eat and drink, and laugh over the rugged jokes of an old soldier. And the father of this disgraced daughter was so lost to shame that he outdid the others in merriment. Misericordia! They were turning the calamity into a jubilee! She breathed a thanksgiving when Colonel Rosario had left the house and she saw the bayonets glinting in the sun, as the Bersaglieri marched toward Milan. Although convinced from the moment of Hera’s return that Mario Forza was the _diabolus ex machina_, as she phrased it, Donna Beatrice, by a heroic act of self-restraint, had refrained from speaking her mind to that effect. Bitterly she regretted the omission an hour after luncheon when she saw Hera riding forth alone, as she did in the old days. From a window she watched her, now through breaks in the foliage, now over the tops of the trees, while she moved down the winding road of the park. She saw the white plume of her hat pass under the gateway arch and caught a glimpse of her beyond the wall as she rode away. “A tryst with Mario Forza!” she assured herself; and, stirred to action by the abhorrent thought, she sent a servant for her brother, that she might break a lance with him on this aspect of the case. The footman informed her that his Excellency was having his afternoon nap. “Napping!” she exclaimed, audibly; and then to herself: “At this critical moment! Napping when his daughter is in danger!” Hera followed the margin of Old Adda, light of heart, receiving the joy of verdure, and forgetful of past trials in her new sensation of freedom. She breathed in the fragrance that blossoms gave the surrounding air. Bird voices, few the last time she rode that way, sounded all about. The poplars on either side of the river--grim black brushes a few weeks before--made two noble files of plumes quivering silver or green in response to every wandering breeze. The river was almost as quiet as the lake from which it flowed. Sparrows bathed in the dust and chased one another on the wing close to the ground. White vapours, floating in clearest blue, were motionless as painted clouds.