Lenore did not speak, but threw open all the windows and doors that were closed.

“Let us be purified of his presence, at least!” she cried, when this was done.

“And you have ceased to fear this man whom you have dared so offend?” I asked.

“He is not offended,” said Lenore.  “Austria is not Naples.  He will not transmit my reply till he is utterly past hope.”

“Hope of what?”

“Of my hand.”

“Lenore!  Then put him beyond hope now!  Become my wife!”

“Ah,—­if it were less unwise”—­

“If you loved me, Lenore, you would not think of that.”

“And you doubt it?  Why should I, then, say again that I love you,—­I love you?”

Ah, friend, how can I repeat those words?  Never have I given her endearments again to the air:  sacred were they then, sacred now, however false.  Ah, passionate words! oh, sweet issimos! tender intonations! how deeply, how deeply ye lie in my soul!  Let me repeat but one sentence:  it was the, key to my destiny.

“Yes, yes,” she said, rising from my arms, “already I do you injury.  You think oftener of me than of Italy.”

It was true.  I sprang to my feet and began pacing the floor, as I sought to recall any instance in which I had done less than I might for my country.  The cool evening-breeze, and the bell-notes sinking through the air from distant old campaniles, soothed my tumult, and, turning, I said,—­

“My devotion to you sanctifies my devotion to her.  And not only for her own sake do I work, but that you, you, Lenore, may have a land where no one is your master, and where your soul may develop and become perfect.”

“And those who have not such object, why do they work?”

Then first I felt that I had fallen from the heights where my companions stood.  This ardent patriotism of mine was sullied, a stain of selfishness rose and blotted out my glory, others should wear the conquering crowns of this grand civic game.  Oh, friend! that was sad enough, but it was inevitable.  Here is where the crime came in,—­that, knowing this, I still continued as their leader, suffered them to call me Master and Saviour, and walked upon the palms they spread.

Lenore mistook my silence.

“You cannot tell me why they work?” she said.  “From habit, from fear, because committed?  It cannot be, then, that they are in earnest, that they are sincere, that they care a rush for this cause so holy to you.  They have entered into it, as all this common people do, for the love of a new excitement, for the pleasurable mystery of conspiracy, for the self-importance and gratulation.  They will scatter at the signal of danger, like mischievous boys when a gendarme comes round the corner.  They will betray you at the lifting of an Austrian finger.  Leave them!”

This was too much to hear in silence,—­to hear of these faithful comrades, who had endured everything, and were yet to overcome because they possessed their souls in patience, each of whom stood higher before God than I in unspotted public purity, and whose praise and love led me constantly to larger effort.  At least I would make them the reparation of vindication.