The grey light of the morning stole into the berlin and revealed to her the erect and tireless figure of her saviour.

The sun leaped down the mountain-peaks, and the grey of the light was now a sparkling gold.

Wogan bade her Highness look from the carriage window, and she could not restrain a cry of delight.

On her left, mountain-ridge rose behind mountain-ridge, away to the towering limestone cliffs of Monte Scanupia; on her right, the white peaks of the Orto d'Abram flashed to the sun; and between the hills the broad valley of the Adige rolled southwards,--a summer country of villages and vines, of mulberry-trees and fields of maize, in the midst of which rose the belfries of an Italian town.
"This is Italy," she cried.
"But the Emperor's Italy," answered Wogan; and at half-past nine that morning the carriage stopped in the public square of Trent.

As Wogan stepped onto the ground, he saw a cloud of dust at the opposite side of the square, and wrapped in that cloud men on horseback like soldiers in the smoke of battle; he heard, too, the sound of wheels.