a said, and kissed her finger-tips to him.

An hour after, by the light of this unlucky little speech, he thought of
her as a shameless coquette. "When I need a refuge? Is not Milan in
arms?--Italy alive? She considers it all a passing epidemic; or, perhaps,
she is to plead for me to the king!"

That set him thinking moodily over the things she had uttered of
Vittoria's strange and sudden devotion to the king.

Rainy dawn and the tongues of the churches ushered in the last day of
street fighting. Ammiani found Romara and Colonel Corte at the head of
strong bodies of volunteers, well-armed, ready to march for the Porta
'rosa. All three went straight to the house where the Provisional
Government sat, and sword in hand denounced Count Medole as a traitor who
sold his country to the king. Corte dragged him to the window to hear the
shouts for the Republic. Medole wrote their names down one by one, and
said, "Shall I leave the date vacant?" They put themselves at the head of
their men, and marched in the ringing of the bells. The bells were their
sacro-military music. Barto Rizzo was off to make a spring at the Porta
Ticinese. Students, peasants, noble youths of the best blood, old men and
young women, stood ranged in the drenching rain, eager to face death for
freedom. At mid-day the bells were answered by cannon and the blunt snap
of musketry volleys; dull, savage responses, as of a wounded great beast
giving short howls and snarls by the interminable over-roaring of a
cataract. Messengers from the gates came running to the quiet centre of
the city, where cool men discoursed and plotted. Great news, big lies,
were shouted:--Carlo Alberto thundered in the plains; the Austrians were
everywhere retiring; the Marshal was a prisoner; the flag of surrender
was on the citadel! These things were for the ears of thirsty women,
diplomatists, and cripples.

Countess Ammiani and Countess d'Isorella sat together throughout the
agitation of the day.

The life prayed for by one seemed a wisp of straw flung on this humming
furnace.

Countess Ammiani was too well used to defeat to believe readily in
victory, and had shrouded her head in resignation too long to hope for
what she craved. Her hands were joined softly in her lap. Her visage had
the same unmoved expression when she conversed with Violetta as when she
listened to the ravings of the Corso.

Darkness came, and the bells ceased not rolling by her open windows: the
clouds we