rpi was on his back somewhere within a short
range of Meran. Vittoria strained her ears to the colonel's German; she
fancied his communication to be that he suspected Angelo's presence in
Meran.

The official part of his visit being terminated, the colonel addressed
some questions to the duchess concerning the night of the famous
Fifteenth at La Scala. He was an amateur, and spoke with enthusiasm of
the reports of the new prima donna. The duchess perceived that he was
asking for an introduction to the heroine of the night, and graciously
said that perhaps that very prima donna would make amends, to him for his
absence on the occasion. Vittoria checked a movement of revolt in her
frame. She cast an involuntary look at Wilfrid. "Now it begins," she
thought, and went to the piano: she had previously refused to sing.
Wilfrid had to bend his head over his betrothed and listen to her
whisperings. He did so, carelessly swaying his hand to the measure of the
aria, with an increasing bitter comparison of the two voices. Lena
persisted in talking; she was indignant at his abandonment of the journey
to Venice; she reproached him as feeble, inconsiderate, indifferent. Then
for an instant she would pause to hear the voice, and renew her assault.
"We ought to be thankful that she is not singing a song of death and
destruction to us! The archduchess is coming to Venice. If you are
presented to her and please her, and get the writs of naturalization
prepared, you will be one of us completely, and your fortune is made. If
you stay here--why should you stay? It is nothing but your uncle's
caprice. I am too angry to care for music. If you stay, you will earn my
contempt. I will not be buried another week in such a place. I am tired
of weeping. We all go to Venice: Captain Weisspriess follows us. We are
to have endless Balls, an opera, a Court there--with whom am I to dance,
pray, when I am out of mourning? Am I to sit and govern my feet under a
chair, and gaze like an imbecile nun? It is too preposterous. I am
betrothed to you; I wish, I wish to behave like a betrothed. The
archduchess herself will laugh to see me chained to a chair. I shall have
to reply a thousand times to 'Where is he?' What can I answer? 'Wouldn't
come,' will be the only true reply."

During this tirade, Vittoria was singing one of her old songs, well known
to Wilfrid, which brought the vision of a foaming weir, and moonlight
between the branches of a great cedar-tre