In the streets of Milan the battle raged. The Italians resembled lions in courage, and soon one bulwark after another fell into their hands. The ladies of the aristocracy were busy in the Casa Borromeo melting lead and making cannon-balls. All the druggists and chemists manufactured powder and gun-cotton, and the gunsmiths gave up their stocks of firearms.

In spite of the brave resistance of the Austrians, the Borletto Palace had been conquered again by the patriots. Radetzky demanded an armistice, but his proposition was declined. The enemy were not allowed time to collect themselves.

One barrack after the other was captured, and then the great mass of the patriots turned toward the Casa Santa Margarita, where the elite of the artillery had taken up a position, and a bitter struggle ensued. The battle raged indecisively for a long time, when suddenly a bright flame issued from the gate. A patriot, Pasquale Sottocorni, had stealthily reached the palace and set it on fire. He was the first victim of his heroic deed, and died with the cry on his lips:

"Long live Italy!"

But his boldness helped the patriots materially. The escaping soldiers were taken prisoners, and the ranks of the people were recruited in numbers. The Poliziotti barracks still remained to be captured. The Poliziotti was intensely hated in Milan because it was mainly filled with renegades—Italians who sold themselves to Radetzky.

While the fight was going on about the building, Bartolomeo and the corporal were sitting in a room playing cards. The major permitted his pupil to win and lose at times. Every minute he gained was precious to him, and the corporal did not dream of shooting his teacher while they were playing ecarte.

From time to time a soldier put his head in the room to ask when the execution was going to take place.

Every time he did so he was told to be off.

The corporal had just finished dealing the cards, when the soldier again appeared.

"Corporal," he said, breathlessly, "the Poliziotti are giving way, the Croatians are decimated—shall we go to their rescue?"

"Bah! we are only a handful," growled the corporal. "Let us await the result."

The door closed behind the soldier. Bartolomeo now sprang up, took the sword and gun from the drunken corporal, and cried in his ear:

"Obey my order, or you are a dead man!"

"What—should—I—do?" stammered the corporal, partly sobered.

"Hoist the white flag—quick!"

"But I—have—no—authority—here!"

"Who cares?" exclaimed Bartolomeo, "give the order—the people will be needlessly sacrificed—are you going now?"

The corporal still hesitated, but just then a police sergeant ran in and cried:

"Corporal—let your men get shot—the scoundrels refuse to fight!"

Bartolomeo had placed himself behind the corporal; the muzzle of the gun lay against his knee, and this fact made the Austrian obedient.

"My people are right," he said, gruffly; "I have given the order to hoist the white flag."

"The white flag? What for?"

"Special order from the marshal," replied the corporal.

"Which reached you?" asked the sergeant, distrustfully.

"Yes; do not consider any longer!" thundered Bartolomeo, coming forward: "I have brought the order myself."

The sergeant saw the Austrian uniform; he disappeared hurriedly, and Bartolomeo called after him:

"God help you if the flag is not hoisted before two minutes have passed."

Suddenly the firing ceased, a loud noise was heard. The Italians saluted the white flag—the signal of peace.

In the barracks itself loud curses were heard—Count San Pietro had discovered that the white flag had been hoisted, and was heaping insults upon the officers. No one admitted having given the order. Benedetto, though, did not look kindly upon the proposition of an old colonel to have the flag removed. With a diabolical smile he said:

"If the patriots have any confidence in the flag then it's their own fault. Follow my commands punctually, and I will forget your stupidity."

A few minutes later a terrible crash was heard, followed by a loud cry. From all the windows the bullets flew; the cannons threw death and destruction into the ranks of the trusting patriots.

The confusion only lasted a moment.

"Surround the rat-hole! Not a single one must escape—down with the poliziotti!" exclaimed the Italians, wildly.

In firm columns they advanced against the barracks, and then they paused. Suppose treachery was in store for them?

The patriots now retreated to the right and left, to make room for two persons: a white-haired old man and a handsome dark-featured boy. The old man turned to the Italians, and said in a loud voice:

"Friends and brothers! The barracks of San Francisco, San Vittore and the military hospital are in our possession. Radetzky's palace has been stormed, and the marshal's baton has fallen into the hands of the conquerors. Forward, with God! We two, an old man and a weak child, will show you the way!"

Proudly erect, the old man strode toward the door, and Spero walked hurriedly behind him, and a fanatical, enthusiastic crowd followed.

On the threshold stood an Austrian officer. He lifted his gun, and triumphantly exclaimed:

"Ha, Monte-Cristo—to-day I shall strike you through the heart! Curses on you and your race!"

The gun directed against Spero's breast went off. When the smoke had cleared away, the boy stood there unharmed, while a man tumbled down at his feet. It was Bartolomeo! Taking advantage of the confusion, he ran away and came just in the nick of time to receive Benedetto's murderous bullet in his breast.

A quarter of an hour later Aslitta appeared accompanied by Monte-Cristo and La Luciola. He was still pale and exhausted, but he swung his sword and joyfully exclaimed: "Radetzky has fled. The citadel has surrendered."

The Italians embraced each other. Their dream was realized. Milan was free.

"Papa," whispered Spero, "come with me. There is a man lying over there who sacrificed himself for me."

Monte-Cristo bent over the major, whose pale face lighted up joyfully when he saw the count.

"Let me see the wound," said Monte-Cristo. "Who knows but—"

"Unnecessary," whispered Bartolomeo; "my adopted son understands—how—to—aim!"

"Ha! then it was Benedetto!" exclaimed the count.

"His bullet was intended for me," said Spero. "He said he wished to strike you through the heart."

"The monster!" said Monte-Cristo, and turning to Bartolomeo, he added: "and how shall I thank you?"

"Ah!—that—does good," stammered Bartolomeo. "Count—care for—Aurora. Ah!—I am dying. Your hand—farewell—child. Italy—is—free!"

The major stretched himself out and his eyes became glassy.

Spero sobbed bitterly, and the count whispered:

"May the earth be light to you. If you have sinned, your love for your country has made atonement!"

One hour later the count, Haydee and Spero bade adieu to Aslitta and Luciola in the CafÉ Vidiserti.

"Farewell, marquis," said the count, throwing a knowing glance at Aslitta, who held the diva in his arms.

Aslitta nodded.

"To-day Luciola will be my bride," he gently said.

"Why do you wish to leave us?" exclaimed Luciola, sobbing.

"Because others need me. Come, Haydee, Mercedes is waiting."