A singular, almost fantastical exaltation took possession of the young
girl, an exaltation such as might have possessed itself of a priestess
of old, pouring a libation to the gods in behalf of some devout
suppliant. He had known her, this mysterious, homeless being that had
come floating across the waters to hear the song of his exile. A deep,
thrilling emotion lifted her on its crest, as the long, slow, elemental
rhythm of the ocean had lifted the frail shell of the gondola, far out
at the Porto del Lido, such a life-time ago. But now she did not shrink
from it, she was not disconcerted by it. She only sang on, with growing
passion and power. Everything small and personal seemed swept away. She
felt herself a human creature, singing the needs and aspirations of
another human creature. She was alive, she had come into her birthright.
This man, whose personality had so haunted and harassed her, was no
longer an enigma; she no longer commiserated him. What mattered poverty,
suffering, exile? To be alive was enough; to have _la patria_, or any
other great and high thought in the soul was infinitely more than any mere
presence or possession.

All this was coursing through her mind, and the spirit of it was
entering into her song, with an urgency and power that gave it a really
extraordinary dramatic force. The last words

"_Dolce patria e il cor con te,
Dolce patria e il cor con te!_"

rang out with an impassioned brilliancy of tone that took the listeners
by storm.

As the singer sank upon her seat, not spent by the effort, but rather
absorbed with the new thoughts and emotions that were crowding upon her,
the clapping of many hands sounded to her remote and meaningless, and
she did not even notice that the solitary gondola had slipped away.

Canti feared that she was really exhausted. "It is enough, Signorina,"
he said; "we will go home."

As the barge turned, the gondolas made way for it, and then they pressed
about it again, to offer more money and more. There was no longer any
need of passing the hat.

And May felt that she had finished, that it was enough. She sat very
still, the folds of the black lace almost covering her face, as they
rowed homeward to chorus after chorus of gay songs: "_La bella,
Napoli_," "_Funicoli funicola_," "_Margherita_." She experienced no
painful reaction; she was filled with an uplifting sense of successful
achievement. And her thoughts had turned almost immediately