omara was that of an angel's answering. He entered
the room neat and trim as a cavalier dressed for social evening duty,
saying with his fine tact, "We are all well;" and after talking like
a gazette of the Porta Tosa taken by the volunteers, Barto Rizzo's
occupation of the gate opening on the Ticino, and the bursting of the
Porta Camosina by the freebands of the plains, he handed a letter to
Countess Ammiani.

"Carlo is on the march to Bergamo and Brescia, with Corte, Sana, and
about fifty of our men," he said.

"And is wounded--where?" asked Violetta.

"Slightly in the hand--you see, he can march," Romara said, laughing
at her promptness to suspect a subterfuge, until he thought, "Now, what
does this mean, madam?"

A lamp was brought to Countess Ammiani. She read:

"MY MOTHER!

"Cotton-wool on the left fore-finger. They deigned to give me no
other memorial of my first fight. I am not worthy of papa's two
bullets. I march with Corte and Sana to Brescia. We keep the
passes of the Tyrol. Luciano heads five hundred up to the hills
to-morrow or next day. He must have all our money. Then go from
door to door and beg subscriptions. Yes, my Chief! it is to be
like God, and deserving of his gifts to lay down all pride, all
wealth. This night send to my betrothed in Turin. She must be with
no one but my mother. It is my command. Tell her so. I hold
imperatively to it.

"I breathe the best air of life. Luciano is a fine leader in
action, calm as in a ball-room. What did I feel? I will talk of it
with you by-and-by;--my father whispered in my ears; I felt him at
my right hand. He said, 'I died for this day.' I feel now that I
must have seen him. This is imagination. We may say that anything
is imagination. I certainly heard his voice. Be of good heart, my
mother, for I can swear that the General wakes up when I strike
Austrian steel. He loved Brescia; so I go there. God preserve my
mother! The eyes of heaven are wide enough to see us both.
Vittoria by your side, remember! It is my will.

"CARLO."

Countess Ammiani closed her eyes over the letter, as in a dead sleep.
"He is more his father than himself, and so suddenly!" she said. She
was tearless. Violetta helped her to her bed-room under the pretext of a
desire to hear the contents of the letter.

That night, which ended the five days of battle in Milan, while fires
were raging at