ave seemed cruel in any other case; though in all cases the
candidate for laurels must, in common with the criminal, go through the
ordeal of justification. Men do not heartily bow their heads until
they have subjected the aspirant to some personal contest, and find
themselves overmatched. The senses, ready to become so slavish in
adulation and delight, are at the beginning more exacting than the
judgement, more imperious than the will. A figure in amber and pale blue
silk was seen, such as the great Venetian might have sketched from his
windows on a day when the Doge went forth to wed the Adriatic a superb
Italian head, with dark banded hair-braid, and dark strong eyes under
unabashed soft eyelids! She moved as, after long gazing at a painting
of a fair woman, we may have the vision of her moving from the frame.
It was an animated picture of ideal Italia. The sea of heads right up to
the highest walls fronted her glistening, and she was mute as moonrise.
A virgin who loosens a dove from her bosom does it with no greater
effort than Vittoria gave out her voice. The white bird flutters
rapidly; it circles and takes its flight. The voice seemed to be as
little the singer's own.

The theme was as follows:--Camilla has dreamed overnight that her lost
mother came to her bedside to bless her nuptials. Her mother was folded
in a black shroud, looking formless as death, like very death, save
that death sheds no tears. She wept, without change of voice, or mortal
shuddering, like one whose nature weeps: 'And with the forth-flowing of
her tears the knowledge of her features was revealed to me.' Behold the
Adige, the Mincio, Tiber, and the Po!--such great rivers were the tears
pouring from her eyes. She threw apart the shroud: her breasts and her
limbs were smooth and firm as those of an immortal Goddess: but breasts
and limbs showed the cruel handwriting of base men upon the body of
a martyred saint. The blood from those deep gashes sprang out at
intervals, mingling with her tears. She said:

'My child! were I a Goddess, my wounds would heal. Were I a Saint, I
should be in Paradise. I am no Goddess, and no Saint: yet I cannot
die. My wounds flow and my tears. My tears flow because of no fleshly
anguish: I pardon my enemies. My blood flows from my body, my tears from
my soul. They flow to wash out my shame. I have to expiate my soul's
shame by my body's shame. Oh! how shall I tell you what it is to walk
among my children unknown