above Franco's head, in quivering anticipation of the light, of the
immense glory that was rising out of the east, colouring clouds and
clear sky with itself, and welcomed by the bells.

To live, to live, to work, suffer, adore, and ascend! That was what the
light demanded! He must carry the living away in his arms, carry the
dead away in his heart, return to Turin, work for Italy, die for her!
The dawning day demanded this. Italy! Italy! Beloved Mother! Franco
clasped his hands in a transport of desire.

Luisa heard the bells also. She wished that she might not have heard
them, wished that day might never dawn, bringing with it the hour in
which Maria must be consigned to the grave. On her knees beside her
baby's little body she promised her that every day of her life she would
come and talk to her, bring her flowers, and bear her company; morning
and evening she would come. Then she sank down and gave herself up to
those dark thoughts which she had not wished to confess to her husband,
and which had grown and matured in her during the last twenty-four
hours, as a malignant infection of remote origin which has lain dormant
in the system, being caught up at last in the current of the blood,
suddenly bursts forth with overwhelming violence.

All her religious views, her faith in the existence of God, her
scepticism concerning the immortality of the soul were tending towards
subversion. She was convinced that she was in no way responsible for
Maria's death. If indeed there did exist an Intelligence, a Will, a
Power which was master of men and of things, then the monstrous guilt
was of this Intelligence, which had coldly pre-ordained Barborin
Passotti's visit and gift; had withdrawn Maria from those who should
have watched over her in her mother's absence; had lured her,
defenceless, towards destruction; had killed her. That same Power had
checked her, the mother, when she had been about to perform an act of
justice. Fool that she was, ever to have believed in Divine Justice!
There was no such thing as Divine Justice! Instead there was the altar
allied to the throne; the Austrian God, a party to all injustice, all
tyranny, author of suffering, and of evil, slayer of the innocent and
protector of the wicked. Ah! if such a God did indeed exist, it were
better that Maria be there in that body, better that no part of her
should live on to fall into the toils of this fiendish Omnipotence!

But it was possible to doubt the ex