and stared in a dead silence, and
she began to sing. I had heard that song from Violet's lips, and a day
or two later she made me a translation of it, of which I have long since
forgotten everything but the first verse. It was a song of revolution,
almost as popular in Italy and quite as sternly prohibited as was the
Marseillaise in France. Here is the one verse that I remember:

"Oh, is it sleep or death
In which Italia lies?
Betwixt her pallid lips is any breath?
Is any light of life within her eyes?
Oh, is it sleep or death?"

It went on to picture Italy prostrate under the armed heel of Austria,
and in its concluding verse the trance was broken, the trampled figure
had risen to its feet, had wrested the sword from the oppressor's hand,
had hurled him to the earth, and stood triumphant over his lifeless
body. I have heard finer voices by the dozen, but I have not often heard
a finer style or one more magnetic and enthralling. The little woman
sang as if the song possessed her, and it is not often that a singer
finds such an audience. When the first amazement was over I looked about
me and saw that everybody had risen and turned towards the singer as if
by a common impulse. The song was recognized at the first bar, and it
was listened to with an enthusiasm which had something very like worship
in it. Before the first verse was over I saw tears glittering in many
eyes, and when leaving the mournful strain with which she opened,
the singer passed on to the swing and passion of the second and third
verses, many of the listeners were so carried away that they wept
outright; somebody struck in on the final line with a ringing tenor, and
then the whole crowd joined in. The third verse was sung over and over
again, in a scene of enthusiasm almost as wild as that of the count's
welcome at the railway station, or the later and still more memorial
meeting of that same evening. The hot Italian blood was fairly fired,
and it took a long time to cool again. Brunow, who only a few minutes
before had seemed so unlike his usual self, surrendered himself to the
excitement of the moment with a zest, and seemed as madly enthusiastic
as any one of them. He sang with both hands in the air, beating time
extravagantly; and when at last the hubbub was over, he pressed his
way to the baroness, who stood smiling at the pianoforte and drawing on
her-gloves. He took both her hands in his, and said something to