She led me in, well refreshed, and in the cool north rooms of the palace the warm hours of the day slipped like beads from a leash.  It scarcely seemed her fingers that touched the harp to tune, but as if some herald of sirocco, some faint, hot breeze, had brushed between the strings.  It scarcely seemed her voice that talked to me, but something distant as the tone in a sad sea-shell.  What I said I knew not; I was in a maze, bewildered with bliss; I only knew I loved her, I only felt my joy.

She told me many things:  stories of her mountain-home, in distant view of the old fortress of Hellberg,—­this is the fortress of Hellberg, Anselmo,—­of her youth, her maidenhood, her life in Vienna, her lovers in Venice, her health, that had sent her finally there where we sat together.

“I thought it sad,” she said at length, “when they exiled me, so to say, from Vienna and all my gay career there, because Venice, with its water-breaths, might heal my attainted health,—­and sadder when the winter bade me leave night-tides and gondolas and repair to Rome.  Now spring has come, and all the hills are blue with these deep violets, the very air is balm, the year is at flood, and life at what seems its height is perfected with you.”

“But you love that land you left?” I replied, after a while, and lifting her face to meet my gaze.

“Love it?  Oh, yes!  You love your land as you love a person in whose veins and yours kindred blood runs, because it is hardly possible to do otherwise.  The land gave me life, that is all; I never knew till lately that it was anything to be thankful for.  It is not sufficiently a country to kindle enthusiasm; it has no national life, you know,—­is an automaton put through its motions by paid and cunning mechanists.  I thought it right to obey orders and serve it.  But now you are my country,—­I serve only you.”

It was easy so to pass to my own hopes, to my own life, to my land, the land to which I had vowed the last drop of blood in my gift.  Her eyes beamed upon me, smiles rippled over her face, she clasped me now and then and sealed my brow with kisses.  Soon I left her side and strode from end to end of the long salon, speaking eagerly of the future that opened to Italy.  I told her how the beautiful corpse lay waiting its resurrection, and how the Angel of Eternal Life hovered with spreading wings above, ready to sound his general trump.  My pulses beat like trip-hammers, and as I passed a mirror I saw myself white with the excitement that fired me.

“You are wild with your joyous emotion,” she said, coming forward and clinging round me.  “Your eyes flame from depths of darkness.  What, after all, is Italy to you, that your blood should boil in thinking of her wrongs?  These people, for whom in your terrible magnanimity, I feel that you would sacrifice even me, to-morrow would turn and rend you!”

“No, no!” I answered.  “All things but you!  You, you, are before my country!”