of them, though each day I bear the sun abroad
like my beating heart; each night the moon, like a heart with no blood
in it. Sun and moon they see, but not me! They know not their mother. I
cry to God. The answer of our God is this:--"Give to thy children one by
one to drink of thy mingled tears and blood:--then, if there is virtue
in them, they shall revive, thou shaft revive. If virtue is not in them,
they and thou shall continue prostrate, and the ox shall walk over you."
From heaven's high altar, O Camilla, my child, this silver sacramental
cup was reached to me. Gather my tears in it, fill it with my blood, and
drink.'

The song had been massive in monotones, almost Gregorian in its severity
up to this point.

'I took the cup. I looked my mother in the face. I filled the cup from
the flowing of her tears, the flowing of her blood; and I drank!'

Vittoria sent this last phrase ringing out forcefully. From the
inveterate contralto of the interview, she rose to pure soprano in
describing her own action. 'And I drank,' was given on a descent of the
voice: the last note was in the minor key--it held the ear as if
more must follow: like a wail after a triumph of resolve. It was
a masterpiece of audacious dramatic musical genius addressed with
sagacious cunning and courage to the sympathizing audience present. The
supposed incompleteness kept them listening; the intentness sent that
last falling (as it were, broken) note travelling awakeningly through
their minds. It is the effect of the minor key to stir the hearts of
men with this particular suggestiveness. The house rose, Italians--and
Germans together. Genius, music, and enthusiasm break the line of
nationalities. A rain of nosegays fell about Vittoria; evvivas, bravas,
shouts--all the outcries of delirious men surrounded her. Men and women,
even among the hardened chorus, shook together and sobbed. 'Agostino!'
and 'Rocco!' were called; 'Vittoria!' 'Vittoria!' above all, with
increasing thunder, like a storm rushing down a valley, striking in
broad volume from rock to rock, humming remote, and bursting up again
in the face of the vale. Her name was sung over and over--'Vittoria!
Vittoria!' as if the mouths were enamoured of it.

'Evviva la Vittoria a d' Italia!' was sung out from the body of the
house.

An echo replied--'"Italia a il premio della VITTORIA!"' a well-known
saying gloriously adapted, gloriously rescued from disgrace.

But the object and source of