She passed idlers reclining on the greensward of the roadside--sun-burned men and women who, by the immemorial law of the season, should have been busy in the fields. She saw more idlers before the village tavern. They were gathered about a comrade who read from a big-headlined journal of Milan. The group would have received no attention from her but for one boisterous fellow who crossed the road calling out the news to a neighbour in his window. She heard distinctly the name of Mario Forza, but more than this she was not able to make out. Nevertheless, she had heard enough to send her back to the tavern. As she drew rein the men turned from the reader and one and all bared their uncombed heads. She asked the news from Milan, and the man who had been reading came forward, clearing his throat for a speech. “Most excellent signora,” he began, “the bugle call has sounded, and throughout the length and breadth of our fair land the battalions of labour are marching. The sun of the social revolution has risen. The invincible industrial army--” “Shut up, Pietro!” commanded a brawny blacksmith, snatching the journal from the orator’s hand. “If your Excellency would like to read,” he said, offering the paper to Hera. While she cast her eye over the printed page some of the men gathered about her horse, their bronzed faces upturned to hers and upon them a dull expression of triumph in the story of riot and bloodshed that was unfolded. Presently they saw her start with catching breath, drop the paper to her side, and sit her saddle in silence a moment, oblivious of the many eyes upon her, and staring off in the direction of Milan. “It is a fine uprising, Excellency, neh?” one of the men said, but Hera had only a nod of the head for reply.