n overnight. One of her
hugs awoke Vittoria, who said, 'Shut my window, mother,' and slept
again fast. Giacinta saw that they were nearer to the mountains.
Mountain-shadows were thrown out, and long lank shadows of cypresses
that climbed up reddish-yellow undulations, told of the sun coming.
The sun threw a blaze of light into the carriage. He shone like a good
friend, and helped Giacinta think, as she had already been disposed to
imagine, that the machinery by which they had been caught out of Milan
was amicable magic after all, and not to be screamed at. The sound
medicine of sleep and sunlight was restoring livelier colour to her
mistress. Giacinta hushed her now, but Vittoria's eyes opened, and
settled on her, full of repose.

'What are you thinking about?' she asked.

'Signorina, my own, I was thinking whether those people I see on the
hill-sides are as fond of coffee as I am.'

Vittoria sat up and tumbled questions out headlong, pressing her eyes
and gathering her senses; she shook with a few convulsions, but shed no
tears. It was rather the discomfort of their position than any vestige
of alarm which prompted Giacinta to project her head and interrogate
the coachman and chasseur. She drew back, saying, 'Holy Virgin! they are
Germans. We are to stop in half-an-hour.' With that she put her hands to
use in arranging and smoothing Vittoria's hair and dress--the dress of
Camilla--of which triumphant heroine Vittoria felt herself an odd little
ghost now. She changed her seat that she might look back on Milan. A
letter was spied fastened with a pin to one of the cushions. She opened
it, and read in pencil writing:

'Go quietly. You have done all that you could do for good or for ill.
The carriage will take you to a safe place, where you will soon see your
friends and hear the news. Wait till you reach Meran. You will see
a friend from England. Avoid the lion's jaw a second time. Here you
compromise everybody. Submit, or your friends will take you for a mad
girl. Be satisfied. It is an Austrian who rescues you. Think yourself
no longer appointed to put match to powder. Drown yourself if a second
frenzy comes. I feel I could still love your body if the obstinate soul
were out of it. You know who it is that writes. I might sign "Michiella"
to this: I have a sympathy with her anger at the provoking Camilla.
Addio! From La Scala.'

The lines read as if Laura were uttering them. Wrapping her cloak across
the silken oper