up. Camilla has thrown off the mask, and has sung the name “Italia!” At the recurrence of it the men rose likewise.
“Italia, Italia, shall be free!”
Vittoria gave the inspiration of a dying voice: the conquest of death by an eternal truth seemed to radiate from her. Voice and features were as one expression of a rapture of belief built upon pathetic trustfulness.
“Italia, Italia shall be free!”
She seized the hearts of those hard and serious men as a wind takes the strong oak-trees, and rocks them on their knotted roots, and leaves them with the song of soaring among their branches. Italy shone about her; the lake, the plains, the peaks, and the shouldering flushed snowridges. Carlo Ammiani breathed as one who draws in fire. Grizzled Agostino glittered with suppressed emotion, like a frosted thorn-bush in the sunlight. Ugo Corte had his thick brows down, as a man who is reading iron matter. The Chief alone showed no sign beyond a half lifting of the hand, and a most luminous fixed observation of the fair young woman, from whom power was an emanation, free of effort. The gaze was sad in its thoughtfulness, such as our feelings translate of the light of evening.
She ceased, and he said, “You sing on the night of the fifteenth?”
“I do, signore.”
“It is your first appearance?”
She bent her head.
“And you will be prepared on that night to sing this song?”
“Yes, signore.”
“Save in the event of your being forbidden?”
“Unless you shall forbid me, I will sing it, signore.”
“Should they imprison you?—”
“If they shoot me I shall be satisfied to know that I have sung a song that cannot be forgotten.”
The Chief took her hand in a gentle grasp.
“Such as you will help to give our Italy freedom. You hold the sacred flame, and know you hold it in trust.”
“Friends,”—he turned to his companions,—“you have heard what will be the signal for Milan.”
CHAPTER IV
It was a surprise to all of them, save to Agostino Balderini, who passed his inspecting glance from face to face, marking the effect of the announcement. Corte gazed at her heavily, but not altogether disapprovingly. Giulio Bandinelli and Marco Sana, though evidently astonished, and to some extent incredulous, listened like the perfectly trusty lieutenants in an enterprise which they were. But Carlo Ammiani stood horror-stricken. The blood had left his handsome young olive-hued face, and his eyes were on the signorina, large with amazement, from which they deepened to piteousness of entreaty.
“Signorina!—you! Can it be true? Do you know?—do you mean it?”
“What, signor Carlo?”
“This; will you venture to do such a thing?”
“Oh, will I venture? What can you think of me? It is my own request.”
“But, signorina, in mercy, listen and consider.”
Carlo turned impetuously to the Chief. “The signorina can’t know the danger she is running. She will be seized on the boards, and shut up between four walls before a man of us will be ready,—or more than one,” he added softly. “The house is sure to be packed for a first night; and the Polizia have a suspicion of her. She has been off her guard in the Conservatorio; she has talked of a country called Italy; she has been indiscreet;—pardon, pardon, signorina! but it is true that she has spoken out from her noble heart. And this opera! Are they fools?—they must see through it. It will never,—it can’t possibly be reckoned on to appear. I knew that the signorina was heart and soul with us; but who could guess that her object was to sacrifice herself in the front rank,—to lead a forlorn hope! I tell you it’s like a Pagan rite. You are positively slaying a victim. I beg you all to look at the case calmly!”
A burst of laughter checked him; for his seniors by many years could not hear such veteran’s counsel from a hurried boy without being shrewdly touched by the humour of it, while one or two threw a particular irony into their tones.
“When we do slay a victim, we will come to you as our augur, my Carlo,” said Agostino.
Corte was less gentle. As a Milanese and a mere youth Ammiani was antipathetic to Corte, who closed his laughter with a windy rattle of his lips, and a “pish!” of some emphasis.
Carlo was quick to give him a challenging frown.
“What is it?” Corte bent his head back, as if inquiringly.
“It’s I who claim that question by right,” said Carlo.
“You are a boy.”
“I have studied war.”
“In books.”
“With brains, Colonel Corte.”
“War is a matter of blows, my little lad.”
“Let me inform you, signor Colonel, that war is not a game between bulls, to be played with the horns of the head.”
“You are prepared to instruct me?” The fiery Bergamasc lifted his eyebrows.
“Nay, nay!” said Agostino. “Between us two first;” and he grasped Carlo’s arm, saying in an underbreath, “Your last retort was too long-winded. In these conflicts you must be quick, sharp as a rifle-crack that hits echo on the breast-bone and makes her cry out. I correct a student in the art of war.” Then aloud: “My opera, young man!—well, it’s my libretto, and you know we writers always say ‘my opera’ when we have put the pegs for the voice; you are certainly aware that we do. How dare you to make calumnious observations upon my opera? Is it not the ripe and admirable fruit of five years of confinement? Are not the lines sharp, the stanzas solid? and the stuff, is it not good? Is not the subject simple, pure from offence to sensitive authority, constitutionally harmless? Reply!”
“It’s transparent to any but asses,” said Carlo.
“But if it has passed the censorship? You are guilty, my boy, of bestowing upon those highly disciplined gentlemen who govern your famous city—what title? I trust a prophetic one, since that it comes from an animal whose custom is to turn its back before it delivers a blow, and is, they remark, fonder of encountering dead lions than live ones. Still, it is you who are indiscreet,—eminently so, I must add, if you will look lofty. If my opera has passed the censorship! eh, what have you to say?”
Carlo endured this banter till the end of it came.
“And you—you encourage her!” he cried wrathfully. “You know what the danger is for her, if they once lay hands on her. They will have her in Verona in four-and-twenty hours; through the gates of the Adige in a couple of days, and at Spielberg, or some other of their infernal dens of groans, within a week. Where is the chance of a rescue then? They torture, too, they torture! It’s a woman; and insult will be one mode of torturing her. They can use rods—”
The excited Southern youth was about to cover his face, but caught back his hands, clenching them.
