Historical fiction; Italy -- History -- Revolution of 1848 -- Fiction; War stories
Weisspriess was on the mule-track a mile above the last village
ascending to the pass, when he observed the party of prisoners, and
climbed up into covert. As they went by he discerned but one person in
female garments; the necessity to crouch for obscurity prevented him
from examining them separately. He counted three men and beheld one of
them between gendarmes. 'That must be my villain,' he said.
It was clear that Vittoria had chosen to go forward alone. The captain
praised her spirit, and now pushed ahead with hunter's strides. He
passed an inn, closed and tenantless: behind him lay the Val di Non;
in front the darker valley of the Adige: where was the prey? A storm of
rage set in upon him with the fear that he had been befooled. He lit a
cigar, to assume ease of aspect, whatever the circumstances might
be, and gain some inward serenity by the outer reflection of it--not
altogether without success. 'My lady must be a doughty walker,' he
thought; 'at this rate she will be in the Ultenthal before sunset.' A
wooded height ranged on his left as he descended rapidly. Coming to a
roll of grass dotted with grey rock, he climbed it, and mounting one
of the boulders, beheld at a distance of half-a-dozen stone-throws
downward, the figure of a woman holding her hand cup-shape to a wayside
fall of water. The path by which she was going rounded the height he
stood on. He sprang over the rocks, catching up his clattering steel
scabbard; and plunging through tinted leafage and green underwood,
steadied his heels on a sloping bank, and came down on the path with
stones and earth and brambles, in time to appear as a seated pedestrian
when Vittoria turned the bend of the mountain way.
Gracefully withdrawing the cigar from his mouth, and touching his breast
with turned-in fingers, he accosted her with a comical operatic effort
at her high notes
'Italia!'
She gathered her arms on her bosom and looked swiftly round: then at the
apparition of her enemy.
It is but an ironical form of respect that you offer to the prey you
have been hotly chasing and have caught. Weisspriess conceived that
he had good reasons for addressing her in the tone best suited to his
character: he spoke with a ridiculous mincing suavity:
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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