of a musket was dropped, which he grasped, and by this aid sprang to the parapet, and was seized.  “Stop,” he said, “there’s a fellow below with my brandy-flask and portmanteau.”  The soldiers were Italians; they laughed, and hauled away at man after man of the mounting troop, calling alternately “brandy-flask!—­portmanteau!” as each one raised a head above the parapet.  “The signor has a good supply of spirits and baggage,” they remarked.  He gave them money for porterage, saying, “You see, the gates are held by that infernal people, and a quiet traveller must come over the walls.  Viva l’Italia! who follows me?” He carried away three of those present.  The remainder swore that they and their comrades would be on his side on the morrow.  Guided by the new accession to his force, Angelo gained the streets.  All shots had ceased; the streets were lighted with torches and hand-lamps; barricades were up everywhere, like a convulsion of the earth.  Tired of receiving challenges and mounting the endless piles of stones, he sat down at the head of the Corso di Porta Nuova, and took refreshments from the hands of ladies.  The house-doors were all open.  The ladies came forth bearing wine and minestra, meat and bread, on trays; and quiet eating and drinking, and fortifying of the barricades, went on.  Men were rubbing their arms and trying rusty gun-locks.  Few of them had not seen Barto Rizzo that day; but Angelo could get no tidings of his brother.  He slept on a door-step, dreaming that he was blown about among the angels of heaven and hell by a glorious tempest.  Near morning an officer of volunteers came to inspect the barricade defences.  Angelo knew him by sight; it was Luciano Romara.  He explained the position of the opposing forces.  The Marshal, he said, was clearly no street-fighter.  Estimating the army under his orders in Milan at from ten to eleven thousand men of all arms, it was impossible for him to guard the gates and then walls, and at the same time fight the city.  Nor could he provision his troops.  Yesterday the troops had made one:  charge and done mischief, but they had immediately retired.  “And if they take to cannonading us to-day, we shall know what that means,” Romara concluded.  Angelo wanted to join him.  “No, stay here,” said Romara.  “I think you are a man who won’t give ground.”  He had not seen either Rinaldo or Ammiani, but spoke of both as certain to be rescued.

Rain and cannon filled the weary space of that day.  Some of the barricades fronting the city gates had been battered down by nightfall; they were restored within an hour.  Their defenders entered the houses right and left during the cannonade, waiting to meet the charge; but the Austrians held off.  “They have no plan,” Romara said on his second visit of inspection; “they are waiting on Fortune, and starve meanwhile.  We can beat them at that business.”