der a
tone of moderate friendship for Emilia, that was capable of excusing her.
A sensitive man of thirty odd years does not loudly proclaim his
appreciation of a girl under twenty: moreover, Merthyr wished to spare
his sister.

He thought of questioning Robert, the coachman, whether anyone had
visited the carriage during his five minutes' absence from it: but
Merthyr's peculiar Welsh delicacy kept him from doing that, hard as it
was to remain in doubt and endure the little poisoned shafts of a
suspicion.

In the morning there was a letter from Marini on the breakfast-table.
Merthyr glanced down the contents. His countenance flashed with a
marvellous light. "Where is she?" he said, looking keenly for Emilia.

Emilia came in from the garden.

"Now, my Sandra!" cried Merthyr, waving the letter to her; "can you pack
up, to start in an hour? There's work coming on for us, and I shall be a
boy again, and not the drumstick I am in this country. I have a letter
from Marini. All Lombardy is prepared to rise, and this time the business
will be done. Marini is off for Genoa. Under the orange-trees, my Sandra!
and looking on the bay, singing of Italy free!"

Emilia fell back a step, eyeing him with a grave expression of wonder, as
if she beheld another being from the one she had hitherto known. The calm
Englishman had given place to a volcanic spirit.

"Isn't that the sketch we made?" he resumed. "The plot's perfect. I
detest conspiracies, but we must use what weapons we can, and be Old
Mole, if they trample us in the earth. Once up, we have Turin to back us.
This I know. We shall have nothing but the Tedeschi to manage: and if
they beat us in cavalry, it's certain that they can't rely on their light
horse. The Magyars would break in a charge. We know that they will. As
for the rest:--

'Soldati settentrionali,
Come sarebbe Boemi a Croati,'

we are a match for them! Artillery we shall get. The Piedmontese are mad
for the signal. Come; sit and eat. The air seems dead down in this quiet
country; we're out of the stream. I must rush up to London to breathe and
then we won't lose a moment. We shall be in Italy in four days. Four
days, my Sandra! And Italy going to be free; Georgey, I'm fasting. And
you will see all your old friends. All? Good God! No!--not all! Their
blood shall nerve us. The Austrian thinks he wastes us by slaughter. With
every dead man he doubles the life of the living! Am I talking like a
forei