like Laura Fiaveni, had bent her
head above a slaughtered husband, but, unlike Laura, Marcellina Ammiani
had not buried her heart with him. Her heart and all her energies had
been his while he lived; from the visage of death it turned to her son.
She had accepted the passion for Italy from Paolo; she shared it with
Carlo. Italian girls of that period had as little passion of their own
as flowers kept out of sunlight have hues. She had given her son to her
country with that intensely apprehensive foresight of a mother's love
which runs quick as Eastern light from the fervour of the devotion to
the remote realization of the hour of the sacrifice, seeing both in one.
Other forms of love, devotion in other bosoms, may be deluded, but hers
will not be. She sees the sunset in the breast of the springing dawn.
Often her son Carlo stood a ghost in her sight. With this haunting
prophetic vision, it was only a mother, who was at the same time a
supremely noble woman, that could feel all human to him notwithstanding.
Her heart beat thick and fast when Carlo and Luciano entered the
morning-room where she sat, and stopped to salute her in turn.

'Well?' she said without betraying anxiety or playing at carelessness.

Carlo answered, 'Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die. I think
that's the language of peaceful men.'

'You are to be peaceful men to-morrow, my Carlo?'

'The thing is in Count Medole's hands,' said Luciano; 'and he is
constitutionally of our Agostino's opinion that we are bound to wait
till the Gods kick us into action; and, as Agostino says, Medole has
raised himself upon our shoulders so as to be the more susceptible to
their wishes when they blow a gale.'

He informed her of the momentary thwarting of the conspiracy, and won
Carlo's gratitude by not speaking of the suspicion which had fallen on
Vittoria.

'Medole,' he said, 'has the principal conduct of the business in Milan,
as you know, countess. Our Chief cannot be everywhere at once; so Medole
undertakes to decide for him here in old Milan. He decided yesterday
afternoon to put off our holiday for what he calls a week. Checco, the
idiot, in whom he confides, gave me the paper signifying the fact at
four o'clock. There was no appeal; for we can get no place of general
meeting under Medole's prudent management. He fears our being swallowed
in a body if we all meet.'

The news sent her heart sinking in short throbs down to a delicious
rest; but Countess