“I am in the midst of a theatre of glorious, snow-crowned mountains, whose pedestals are garlanded with the olive and mulberry, and along whose sides run bridle-paths, fringed with almond groves and vineyards.  The valleys are yellow with saffron flowers; the grain fields enamelled with the brilliant blue corn-flower and red poppy.  They are of intoxicating beauty, and like nothing in America.  The old genius of Europe has so mellowed even the marbles here, that one cannot have the feeling of holy virgin loneliness, as in the New World.  The spirits of the dead crowd me in most solitary places.  Here and there, gleam churches or shrines.  The little town, much ruined, lies on the slope of a hill, with the houses of the barons gone to decay, and unused churches, over whose arched portals are faded frescoes, with the open belfry, and stone wheel-windows, always so beautiful.  Sweet little paths lead away through the fields to convents,—­one of Passionists, another of Capuchins; and the draped figures of the monks, pacing up and down the hills, look very peaceful.  In the churches still open, are pictures, not by great masters, but of quiet, domestic style, which please me much, especially one of the Virgin offering her breast to the child Jesus.  There is often sweet music in these churches; they are dressed with fresh flowers, and the incense is not oppressive, so freely sweeps through them the mountain breeze.”

Here Margaret remained but a month, while Ossoli was kept fast by his guard duties in Rome. “Addio, tutto caro,” she writes; “I shall receive you with the greatest joy, when you can come.  If it were only possible to be nearer to you! for, except the good air and the security, this place does not please me.”  And again:—­“How much I long to be near you!  You write nothing of yourself, and this makes me anxious and sad.  Dear and good!  I pray for thee often, now that it is all I can do for thee.  We must hope that Destiny will at last grow weary of persecuting.  Ever thy affectionate.”  Meantime Ossoli writes:—­“Why do you not send me tidings of yourself, every post-day? since the post leaves Aquila three times a week.  I send you journals or letters every time the post leaves Rome.  You should do the same.  Take courage, and thus you will make me happier also; and you can think how sad I must feel in not being near you, dearest, to care for all your wants.”

By the middle of July, Margaret could bear her loneliness no longer, and, passing the mountains, advanced to Rieti, within the frontier of the Papal States.  Here Ossoli could sometimes visit her on a Sunday, by travelling in the night from Rome.  “Do not fail to come,” writes Margaret.  “I shall have your coffee warm.  You will arrive early, and I can see the diligence pass the bridge from my window.”  But now threatened a new trial, terrible under the circumstances, yet met with the loving heroism that characterized all her conduct.  The civic guard was ordered to prepare for marching