But on the outside of the crowd, Tomaso and Vittore, kneeling with the rest, as that banner drew near, now stirred uneasily, and, as the coach came abreast, the woman made a convulsive movement with her hands. The elder sprang to his feet and stepped forward impulsively. At sight of him in the roadway the horseman drew rein, and the terror-stricken crowd watched breathless, while the youth advanced boldly to his stirrup, hot words upon his lips, defiance in his eyes. The red-haired man at the bridle crouched, but before the lad could speak, the rider, leaning forward, struck him a blow full across the face. There was no need for a second. With a scream of pain, Tomaso fell back, and then, as if noticing them for the first time, the horseman sent his glance on the crowd. No sound or movement: they cowered beneath his eyes in deprecating silence. "Drive on," he said, and the dreary procession started again, winding through the sun and shadow toward Brescia. So great was the spell upon the peasants, that though the wounded boy lay moaning in the road, not a man, scarce a child among them stirred from his place till the banner of the Viper was a silver speck in the distance. Then with shaking hands the youth was dragged into the ditch amid a babble of blame and fear. Vittore, rising from his stricken comrade, gazed into the distance with horror-stricken eyes. "Who was it?" he whispered at last to the woman near him. "Who was it?" She turned a dull face up from the scattered vegetables she was gathering together. "Who art thou that thou knowest not?" she asked. "I come from Florence," said the lad quickly, "traveling to Verona." "To Verona! Thou art not on thy way to Verona here." "I know it, but the company we traveled with was bound for Milan. Three days ago we missed them, and thought to find them in the city where we looked to spend the night, but now----" He glanced at his companion and could scarce refrain from weeping. "To Verona!" said an old peasant, turning sharply at the name. "To Verona!" The child dropped again to his knees beside Tomaso. "Yes," he said, over his shoulder. "My cousin--he is done to death, I fear me--and I were traveling by way of Milan to Della Scala's court----" He broke off, and wrung his hands. "Oh, help me, some one; Tomaso is dying!" With a certain dull humanity, kindness it could scarcely be called that was so inert and full of apathy, one or two of them gave what help they could. "Thou art from Florence!" said the old man again. "Aye, indeed, I _know_ thou art from Florence, for thy mate here to have had such daring. Why camest thou from _Florence_ to anywhere by way of Milan?" For even to the dull mind of the peasantry, Florence, who alone of the cities of Italy had preserved her liberty, seemed a country of the free, a republic of equality.