Once or twice Hera came upon a band of farm hands marching with a semblance of line that bespoke service in the army. For weapons they carried scythes and pitchforks. Here and there a woodman, shouldering a glistening axe, swaggered along with fine assurance of success in his mission to fell the oak of capitalism. “Long live the industrial army!” was the cry that greeted the marching ones oftenest as they trudged on, their faces set with determination. It was an experience that asked a stout heart of Hera. In the cross-currents of her thought she realised that a signora from the world of ease and plenty was not a popular figure in that concourse. But there must have been that in her face which had power to touch those rugged hearts, angry though they were; and she met with no more annoyance than an occasional black scowl. In the suburb of Villacosa she overtook Colonel Rosario’s regiment. The Bersaglieri were moving with the spirited swing that is their pride, canteens clanking, the long plumes of their hats waving, and the dust of the highway astir in their wake. By people who had a well-fed aspect they were greeted with pleased countenances, but in discreet silence; their less prosperous neighbours had only hisses and hoots for the uniformed marchers. Mothers held up their babes and cried, “Fire now, I beg of you.” Other women threw themselves on the roadside, pulled up tufts of grass, and made as if to eat them--a bit of theatricalism intended to typify the extremity to which they were reduced for food. As Hera came up with the head of the column the Colonel chanced to look round; their glances met, and he smiled a cordial recognition. But a puzzled look succeeded the smile when Hera had passed ahead and he had seen the foam that whitened the rings of her horse’s bit and the flakes of it that dappled his chest. And she was riding yet as fast as she could in that teeming road. The sun had set when she turned into the Monza highway. An exodus from Milan had begun. She encountered a stream of vehicles loaded with the fugitives and their baggage; most of them were foreigners bound for the more tranquil air of near-by Swiss cantons.