'We don't know the man,' said her husband; and Adela pleaded for him: 'Don't speak to him harshly, pray, Wilfrid; he says he has a mother dying in Milan.' Barto kept his head down on his arms and groaned; Adela gave a doleful little grimace.

'Oh, take the poor beggar,' said Wilfrid; and sang out to him in Italian: 'Who are you--what are you, my fine fellow ?' Barto groaned louder, and replied in Swiss-French from a smothering depth: 'A poor man, and the gracious lady's servant till we reach Milan.' 'I can't wait,' said Wilfrid; 'I start in half-an-hour.

It's all right; you must take him now you've got him, or else pitch him out--one of the two.

If things go on quietly we shall have the Autumn manoeuvres in a week, and then you may see something of the army.' He rode away.

Barto passed the gates as one of the licenced English family.
Milan was more strictly guarded than when he had quitted it.