brown, with hot, insolent eyes and a fine and
cruel mouth. A great emerald sparkled on the little finger of his left
hand. He was one of the few in the house who wore evening dress, and
he was noticeable on that account, but he had been standing talking
with some other men at the back of his box hitherto. He came forward
now and Gemma saw him. Her set lips relaxed and seemed to redden as
she met his bold, lifted gaze, but as his eyes left hers and he
raised his glasses to stare past her at Olive her face contracted so
that for the moment she was almost ugly.

The performance was timed to begin at nine, but at twenty minutes past
the hour newsvendors were still going to and fro with bundles of
evening papers, and the orchestra was represented by a melancholy
bald-headed man with a cornet. The other musicians came in leisurely,
one by one, and at last the conductor took his place and the audience
settled down and was comparatively quiet while the Royal March was
being played. The orchestra had begun the overture to _Rigoletto_ when
some of the men who stood in the packed arena behind the _palchi_
cried out and their friends in other parts of the house joined in.
They howled like wolves, and for a few minutes the uproar was
terrific, and Verdi's music was overwhelmed by the clamour of voices
until the conductor, turning towards the audience, said something
inaudible with a deprecating bow and a quick movement of his hands.

"_Ora, zitti!_" yelled a voice from the gallery.

Silence was instant, and the whole house rose and stood reverently,
listening to a weird and confused jumble of broken chords that yet
could stir the pulses and quicken the beating of young hearts.

Olive had risen with the rest. "What is it?" she whispered to Maria.

"Garibaldi's Hymn."

It seemed a red harmony of rebellious souls, climbing, struggling,
clutching at the skirts of Freedom. The patter of spent shot, the
heavy breathing of hunted fugitives, the harsh crying of dying men,
the rush of feet that stumbled as they came over the graves of the
Past; all these sounds of bygone strife rang, as it were, faintly,
beyond the strange music, as the sea echoes, sighing, in a shell.

Signora Aurelia had told Olive how in the years before Italy was free
and united under the king, when Guiseppe Verdi was a young man, the
students would call his name in the theatre until the house rang to
the cry of "_Viva Verdi! Viva Verdi!_" A little because they l