“Never fear,” the other returned, cheerfully. “The trains for Como or anywhere else are not departing or arriving on the mark to-day, and if I miss one I shall take another. Ah, what have we here?” The way was blocked again. A detachment of the mob which took the soldiers unawares and succeeded in gaining the square had attempted to pull down the statue of Leonardo da Vinci. The rope was ready, but before they could throw it over the figure and haul it from the pedestal a battalion of infantry had arrived at double quick. As the insurgents retreated up Via Manzoni they filled the air with shouts of defiance, mingled with a hideous uproar of mocking laughter. It was the laughter of those who had taken up the cry, “On to the Supper! Down with the Supper!” The words came distinctly enough to the ears of Mario and the Cardinal, in spite of the din all about, but they did not attach to them the meaning of the grinning mob. Had they grasped the purpose expressed in that grim cry they would have been keener to reach the Bernardine community to which they were bound, and for a more potent reason than that of caring for the wound of Mario Forza. For centuries the refectory of the convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie had held the painting by which the world knows Leonardo da Vinci best--his _Last Supper_. It had survived the periods of desecration begun by the monks themselves and ended by the French soldiers in 1796, under command of the general whose gift to the House of Barbiondi--the Napoleonic table--Tarsis prized so highly. The picture must have been lost but for the devoted service of other painters, who, with reverent hands, from age to age, brought back its beauty of form and colour. Now the monks were its guardians; and now it was a frenzied populace that would desecrate it--not in the old way, by neglect or rough usage, but by tearing it out of the wall and putting an end forever to the restorations. Via Alberto was clear again, and the carriage moved forward, while the voice of the destroyers, growing fainter, sounded as a hoarse murmur behind La Scala Theatre. In Piazza Mercanti hands used to far heavier tasks laid hold of the horses’ heads and stopped the vehicle with a jerk that threw the Cardinal and Mario from their seats. The doors were flung open and jeering men and women surged about them. “Make the gentlemen walk!” “To the barricade with the carriage!” “Come, let us see you use your legs!” And the gentlemen would have walked but for the timely recognition of Mario by one of the masters of the situation. “Back, comrades!” he cried to them. “It is Mario Forza, the friend of labour.”