The war-machine was in motion from end to end: the field of flowers was a streaming flood; regiment by regiment, the crash of bands went by.

Outwardly the Italians conducted themselves with the air of ordinary heedless citizens, in whose bosoms the music set no hell-broth boiling.

Patrician and plebeian, they were chiefly boys; though here and there a middle-aged workman cast a look of intelligence upon Carlo and Luciano, when these two passed along the crowd.

A gloom of hoarded hatred was visible in the mass of faces, ready to spring fierily.
Arms were in the city.

With hatred to prompt the blow, with arms to strike, so much dishonour to avenge, we need not wonder that these youths beheld the bit of liberty in prospect magnified by their mighty obfuscating ardour, like a lantern in a fog.