asked her if she wished to divert him from
any painful subject. "No, no!" she cried, "it's only that I want to feel
an anchor. We are all adrift. Sandra is in perfect health. Our bodies,
dear Merthyr, are enjoying the perfection of comfort. Nothing is done
here except to keep us from boiling over."

"Why does not Count Ammiani come to Rome?" said Merthyr.

"Why are we not all in Rome? Yes, why! why! We should make a carnival of
our own if we were."

"She would have escaped that horrible knife," Merthyr sighed.

"Yes, she would have escaped that horrible knife. But see the difference
between Milan and Rome, my friend! It was a blessed knife here. It has
given her husband back to her; it has destroyed the intrigues against
her. It seems to have been sent--I was kneeling in the cathedral this
morning, and had the very image crossing my eyes--from the saints of
heaven to cut the black knot. Perhaps it may be the means of sending us
to Rome."

Laura paused, and, looking at him, said, "It is so utterly impossible for
us women to comprehend love without folly in a man; the trait by which we
recognize it! Merthyr, you dear Englishman, you shall know everything. Do
we not think a tisane a weak washy drink, when we are strong? But we
learn, when we lie with our chins up, and our ten toes like stopped
organ-pipes--as Sandra says--we learn then that it means fresh health and
activity, and is better than rivers of your fiery wines. You love her, do
you not?"

The question came with great simplicity.

"If I can give a proof of it, I am ready to answer," said Merthyr, in
some surprise.

"Your whole life is the proof of it. The women of your country are
intolerable to me, Merthyr: but I do see the worth of the men. Sandra has
taught me. She can think of you, talk of you, kiss the vision of you, and
still be a faithful woman in our bondage of flesh; and to us you know
what a bondage it is: How can that be? I should have asked, if I had not
seen it. Dearest, she loves her husband, and she loves you. She has two
husbands, and she turns to the husband of her spirit when that, or any,
dagger strikes her bosom. Carlo has an unripe mind. They have been
married but a little more than four months; and he reveres her and loves
her." . . . . Laura's voice dragged. "Multiply the months by thousands,
we shall not make those two lives one. It is the curse of man's education
in Italy? He can see that she has wits and courage. He will not con