Stop a moment.

You're blown.

I think you gulp down your minestra too hot; you drink beer." "You dog the signorina! I swore to scotch you at last." "I left Milan for the purpose--don't you see?
Act fairly, my Beppo, and let us go up to the signorina together decently." "Ay, ay, my little reptile! You'll find no Austrians here.

Cry out to them to come to you from Baveno.

If the Motterone grew just one tree! Saints! one would serve." "Why don't you--fool that you are, my Beppo!--pray to the saints earlier?
Trees don't grow from heaven." "You'll be going there soon, and you'll know better about it." "Thanks to the Virgin, then, we shall part at some time or other!" The struggles between them continued sharply during this exchange of intellectual shots; but hearing Ugo Corte's voice, the prisoner's confident audacity forsook him, and he drew a long tight face like the mask of an admonitory exclamation addressed to himself from within.
"Stand up straight!" the soldier's command was uttered.
Even Beppo was amazed to see that the man had lost the power to obey or to speak.
Corte grasped him under the arm-pit.