nion and concert, all are irresolute and divided.
I have hurried off a messenger to the Chief. Until we hear from him,
nothing can be done. I left Ugo Corte storming against us Milanese,
threatening, as usual, to work without us, and have a Bergamasc and
Brescian Republic of his own. Count Medole is for a week's postponement.
Agostino smiles and chuckles, and talks his poetisms.'

'Until you hear from the Chief, nothing is to be done?' Laura said
passionately. 'Are we to remain in suspense? Impossible! I cannot bear
it. We have plenty of arms in the city. Oh, that we had cannon! I worship
cannon! They are the Gods of battle! But if we surprise the citadel;--one
true shock of alarm makes a mob of an army. I have heard my husband say
so. Let there be no delay. That is my word.'

'But, signora, do you see that all concert about the signal is lost?'

'My friend, I see something'; Laura nodded a significant half-meaning at
him. 'And perhaps it will be as well. Go at once. See that another signal
is decided upon. Oh! because we are ready--ready. Inaction now is
uttermost anguish--kills the heart. What number of the white butchers
have we in the city to-night?'

'They are marching in at every gate. I saw a regiment of Hungarians
coming up the Borgo della Stella. Two fresh squadrons of Uhlans in the
Corso Francesco. In the Piazza d'Armi artillery is encamped.'

'The better for Brescia, for Bergamo, for Padua, for Venice!' exclaimed
Laura. 'There is a limit to their power. We Milanese can match them. For
days and days I have had a dream lying in my bosom that Milan was soon to
breathe. Go, my brother; go to Barto Rizzo; gather him and Count Medole,
Agostino, and Colonel Corte--to whom I kiss my fingers--gather them
together, and squeeze their brains for the one spark of divine fire in
this darkness which must exist where there are so many thorough men bent
upon a sacred enterprise. And, Carlo,'--Laura checked her nervous voice,
'don't think I am declaiming to you from one of my "Midnight Lamps."'
(She spoke of the title of her pamphlets to the Italian people.) 'You
feel among us women very much as Agostino and Colonel Corte feel when the
boy Carlo airs his impetuosities in their presence. Yes, my fervour makes
a philosopher of you. That is human nature. Pity me, pardon me, and do my
bidding.'

The comparison of Ammiani's present sentiments to those of the elders of
the conspiracy, when his mouth was open in their midst, was