She did not offer any further explanation, but slipped out of the big
room and hurried back to the road once more.

The sun had set and twilight gleamed patchy through the clouds of
smoke. It was still light enough to see, and Lucia hurried to the
gate. The first sight that she had of Cellino made her stop and
shudder. The church was in ruins, and every pane of glass was broken
in the entire village. In their haste the refugees had thrown their
belongings out of their windows to the street below, and then had gone
off and left them. Great piles of furniture and broken china littered
the way, and stalls had been tipped over in the market place.

No one stopped Lucia; the town was deserted. She ran hurriedly across
to the North Gate, afraid of the ghostly shadows and unnatural sights.
At the gate a splendid sight met her eyes.

From the convent she had only seen the Austrians, the wall had cut off
her view of the west. But now she commanded a view of the whole field,
and to her joy the Italians were advancing as steadily from the west as
the Austrians from the east. They would meet at the river, and at the
memory of the bridge Lucia threw back her head and laughed. It was not
a merry laugh, but a grim triumphant one, and it held all the relief
that she felt.

But, splendid as the sight before her was, she did not stay long to
look at it. Below, somewhere in the valley, the Italian soldier of the
shining white teeth and the pennies was lying wounded, or dead, and
nothing could make Lucia stop until she found him.