“The law might find fault with my vivacity,” said Veronica.  “But my people would say that I had done right if the man had really cheated them.  It is quite true, I think.  I could do almost anything here.  I had a man locked up in the municipal prison the other day for forty-eight hours, because he was tipsy and swore at Don Teodoro in the street.  Of course, it is nominally the syndic who does that sort of thing; but he belongs to me, like everything else here, and I do as I please, just as my grandfather did, when he really had power of life and death in Muro, including the privilege of torture.  The first article mentioned in the old inventory was forty palms of stout rope for giving the cord, as they called it.  They did it under the main gate,—­that is why it came first,—­and they used to pull them up to the vault and then drop them with a jerk to within two feet of the ground.  The ring is still there, just inside the gate.”

“My mother’s uncle—­the old Marchese di Rionero—­once hanged a ruffian for mutilating one of his horses out of spite.  And they say that Italy has not progressed!  There is no hanging, not even for murder, nowadays.”

“Yes,” answered Veronica, thoughtfully, “we have progressed, in a way.  That is our trouble—­we have progressed too fast and improved too little, I think.”

“That sounds paradoxical.”

“Oh no!  It is common sense, as I mean it.  Progress costs money, improvement brings it.  Progress means wearing clothes like other people, having splendid cities like other nations, keeping up armies and navies like other great powers.  Improvement means helping poor people to earn more wages and to live better—­giving them a possibility of happiness, instead of taking the little they have in order to give ourselves the appearance of greatness.  That is why I say that in Italy we have too much progress and too little improvement.”

“Yes—­how well you put it!” Gianluca looked at her with quick admiration.

“Do I?  It is because you understand easily.  Should you call me patriotic?  I think I am.  I am an Italian before anything else, before being a Serra, a woman, a member of society—­anything!  I feel as though I should like to give my heart for my people and my life for our country, if it would do any good.  Of course, if it really came to making any great sacrifice, I suppose my courage would shrivel up and I should behave just like any one else.”

“No—­you would not,” said Gianluca, gravely.  “There have been women—­the great Countess, and Saint Catherine of Siena—­”

“Yes!” Veronica laughed.  “And there were also my good ancestors, who tore Italy to pieces, joined hands with German Emperors, upset Popes, seized everything they could lay hands upon, and turned the country into a sort of perpetual gladiator’s show.  That is a proud and promising inheritance for an aspiring patriot, is it not?  The less you and I talk of patriotism, the better—­seeing what our people have done in history to make patriotism necessary in our time.”