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Updated: May 9, 2025
The same hand which brought Rinaldo's letter to his brother delivered a message from Barto Rizzo, bidding Angelo to start at once and head a stout dozen or so of gallant Swiss. The letter and the message appeared to be grievous contradictions: one was evidently a note of despair, while the other sang like a trumpet. But both were of a character to draw him swiftly on to Milan.
But Ammiani, who moved in the centre of conspiracies, met at their councils, and knew their heads, and frequently combated their schemes, was not possessed by the same profound idea of their potential command of hidden facts and sovereign wisdom. He said, 'We trust too much to one man. We are compelled to trust him, but we trust too much to him. I mean this man, this devil, Barto Rizzo.
Beautiful she was not, Blount decided, comparing her instantly, as he did all women, with Patricia Anners; but He was not given time to add the qualifying phrase or to prepare himself for what was coming. "What is it, Barto?" the little lady asked, turning to the man with the gun. The reply was direct and straight to the purpose.
Barto had been a soldier, a schoolmaster: twice an exile; a conspirator since the day when the Austrians had the two fine Apples of Pomona, Lombardy and Venice, given them as fruits of peace. Luigi remembered how he had snapped his fingers at the name of Barto Rizzo. There was no despising him now.
Barto rushed to him, but Luigi, with a vixenish countenance, standing like a humped cat, hissed, "Would you destroy my reputation and have it seen that I deliver up letters, under the noses of the writers, to the wrong persons? ha! pestilence!" He ran, Barto following him.
Barto asked. "Certainly I am." "Then I shall have to suspect you, for the good of your country." Luigi could not see the deduction. He was incapable of guessing that it might apply forcibly to Vittoria, who had undertaken a grave, perilous, and imminent work.
This was a part of Barto Rizzo's sustaining creed; nor did he lose his grasp of it in the torment and the darkness of his condition. He heard English voices. A carriage had stopped almost in front of him.
Before the carriage had started, Barto Rizzo dashed up to it; and 'Dear good English lady, he addressed her, 'I am the brother of Luigi, who carries letters for you in Milan little Luigi! and I have a mother dying in Milan; and here I am in Verona, ill, and can't get to her, poor soul!
'The Signorina Vittoria, returned Barto his articulation came forth serpent-like 'she is not a spy, you think. She has been in England: I have been in England. She writes; I can read. She is a thing of whims. Shall she hold the goblet of Italy in her hand till it overflows? She writes love-letters to an English whitecoat. I have read them. Who bids her write? Her whim!
He cried, "Have I made the journey of the Signor Capofinale, who visited the other end of the world by standing on his head?" Barto Rizzo rolled out a burly laugh. "Sit," he said. "You're a poor sweating body, and must needs have a dry tongue. Will you drink?" "Dry!" quoth Luigi. "Holy San Carlo is a mash in a wine-press compared with me."
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