r present woes, he charged this man with the crime
of originating them:--and why? what was his object? He was, the count
declared in answer, a born intriguer, a lover of blood, mad for the
smell of it!--an Old Man of the Mountain; a sheaf of assassins; and
more--the curse of Italy! There should be extradition treaties all over
the world to bring this arch-conspirator to justice. The door of his
conscience had been knocked at by a thousand bleeding ghosts, and
nothing had opened to them. What was Italy in his eyes? A chess-board;
and Italians were the chessmen to this cold player with live flesh.
England nourished the wretch, that she might undermine the peace of the
Continent.

Count Serabiglione would work himself up in the climax of denunciation,
and then look abroad frankly as one whose spirit had been relieved.
He hated bad men; and it was besides necessary for him to denounce
somebody, and get relief of some kind. Italians edged away from him. He
was beginning to feel that he had no country. The detested title 'Young
Italy' hurried him into fits of wrath. 'I am,' he said, 'one of the Old
Italians, if a distinction is to be made.' He assured his listeners
that he was for his commune, his district, and aired his old-Italian
prejudices delightedly; clapping his hands to the quarrels of Milan and
Brescia; Florence and Siena--haply the feuds of villages--and the common
North-Italian jealousy of the chief city. He had numerous capital tales
to tell of village feuds, their date and origin, the stupid effort
to heal them, and the wider consequent split; saying, 'We have, all
Italians, the tenacity, the unforgiveness, the fervent blood of pure
Hebrews; and a little more gaiety, perhaps; together with a love of fair
things. We can outlive ten races of conquerors.'

In this fashion he philosophized, or forced a kind of philosophy. But he
had married his daughter to an Austrian, which was what his countrymen
could not overlook, and they made him feel it. Little by little, half
acquiescing, half protesting, and gradually denationalized, the count
was edged out of Italian society, save of the parasitical class, which
he very much despised. He was not a happy man. Success at the Imperial
Court might have comforted him; but a remorseless sensitiveness of his
nature tripped his steps.

Bitter laughter rang throughout Lombardy when, in spite of his efforts
to save his daughter's husband, Giacomo Piaveni suffered death. No
harder