“I shall not.”

“You come to Turin?”

“I cannot promise.”

“To Milan?”

“No; not yet.”

“Ungrateful little beast! minx! temptress!  You seduce me into your carriage to feed me, to fill me, for to coax me,” cried Pericles.

“Am I the person to have abuse poured on me?” Vittoria rejoined, and she frowned.  “Might I not have called you a wretched whimsical money-machine, without the comprehension of a human feeling?  You are doing me a great wrong—­to win my submission, as I see, and it half amuses me; but the pretence of an attempt to carry me off from my friends is an offence that I should take certain care to punish in another.  I do not give you any promise, because the first promise of all—­the promise to keep one—­is not in my power.  Shut your eyes and sleep where you are, and in the morning think better of your conduct!”

“Of my conduct, mademoiselle!” Pericles retained this sentence in his head till the conclusion of her animated speech,—­“of my conduct I judge better zan to accept of such a privilege as you graciously offer to me;” and he retired with a sour grin, very much subdued by her unexpected capacity for expression.  The bugles of the Austrians were soon ringing.  There was a trifle of a romantic flavour in the notes which Vittoria tried not to feel; the smart iteration of them all about her rubbed it off, but she was reduced to repeat them, and take them in various keys.  This was her theme for the day.

They were in the midst of mulberries, out of sight of the army; green mulberries, and the green and the bronze young vine-leaf.  It was a delicious day, but she began to fear that she was approaching Verona, and that Pericles was acting seriously.  The bronze young vine-leaf seemed to her like some warrior’s face, as it would look when beaten by weather, burned by the sun.  They came now to inns which had been visited by both armies.  Luigi established communication with the innkeepers before the latter had stated the names of villages to Pericles, who stood map in hand, believing himself at last to be no more conscious of his position than an atom in a whirl of dust.  Vittoria still refused to give him any promise, and finally, on a solitary stretch of the road, he appealed to her mercy.  She was the mistress of the carriage, he said; he had never meant to imprison her in Verona; his behaviour was simply dictated by his adoration—­alas!  This was true or not true, but it was certain that the ways were confounded to them.  Luigi, despatched to reconnoitre from a neighbouring eminence, reported a Piedmontese encampment far ahead, and a walking tent that was coming on their route.  The walking tent was an enormous white umbrella.  Pericles advanced to meet it; after an interchange of opening formalities, he turned about and clapped hands.  The umbrella was folded.  Vittoria recognized the last man she would then have thought of meeting; he seemed to have jumped out of an ambush from Meran