Barto had shut his eyes, and hung swaying between them, as in drowsiness or drunkenness.

Like his body, his faith was swaying within him.

He felt it borne upon the reeling brain, and clung to it desperately, calling upon chance to aid him; for he was weak, incapable of a physical or mental contest, and this part of his settled creed that human beings alone failed the patriotic cause as instruments, while circumstances constantly befriended it--was shocked by present events.

The image of Vittoria, the traitress, floated over the soldiery marching on Milan through her treachery.

Never had an Austrian force seemed to him so terrible.