dressed to
herself had she dreamed the mischief it might do. Carlo saw
double-dealing in the absence of any mention of the king in his own
letter.

"Quit Turin at once," he dashed hasty lines to Vittoria; "and no
'Viva il Re' till we know what he may merit. Old delusions are
pardonable; but you must now look abroad with your eyes. Your words
should be the echoes of my soul. Your acts are mine. For the sake
of the country, do nothing to fill me with shame. The king is a
traitor. I remember things said of him by Agostino; I subscribe to
them every one. Were you like any other Italian girl, you might cry
for him--who would care! But you are Vittoria. Fly to my mother's
arms, and there rest. The king betrays us. Is a stronger word
necessary? I am writing too harshly to you;--and here are the lines
of your beloved letter throbbing round me while I write; but till
the last shot is fired I try to be iron, and would hold your hand
and not kiss it--not be mad to fall between your arms--not wish for
you--not think of you as a woman, as my beloved, as my Vittoria; I
hope and pray not, if I thought there was an ace of work left to do
for the country. Or if one could say that you cherished a shred of
loyalty for him who betrays it. Great heaven! am I to imagine that
royal flatteries--My hand is not my own! You shall see all that
it writes. I will seem to you no better than I am. I do not tell
you to be a Republican, but an Italian. If I had room for myself in
my prayers--oh! one half-instant to look on you, though with chains
on my limbs. The sky and the solid ground break up when I think of
you. I fancy I am still in prison. Angelo was music to me for two
whole days (without a morning to the first and a night to the
second). He will be here to-morrow and talk of you again. I long
for him more than for battle--almost long for you more than for
victory for our Italy.

"This is Brescia, which my father said he loved better than his
wife.

"General Paolo Ammiani is buried here. I was at his tombstone this
morning. I wish you had known him.

"You remember, we talked of his fencing with me daily. 'I love the
fathers who do that.' You said it. He will love you. Death is the
shadow--not life. I went to his tomb. It was more to think of
Brescia than of him. Ashes are only ashes; tombs are poor places.
My soul is the power.