Laura Piaveni crossed her arms upon her bosom.

Ammiani was moving from them with a downward face, when a bell-note of Vittoria’s voice arrested him.

‘Stay, Signor Carlo; I shall sing to-morrow night.’

The widow heard her through that thick emotion which had just closed her’ speech with its symbolical sensuous rapture.  Divining opposition fiercely, like a creature thwarted when athirst for the wells, she gave her a terrible look, and then said cajolingly, as far as absence of sweetness could make the tones pleasant, ’Yes, you will sing, but you will not sing that song.’

‘It is that song which I intend to sing, signora.’

‘When it is interdicted?’

‘There is only one whose interdict I can acknowledge.’

‘You will dare to sing in defiance of me?’

‘I dare nothing when I simply do my duty.’

Ammiani went up to the window, and leaned there, eyeing the lights leading down to the crowding Piazza.  He wished that he were among the crowd, and might not hear those sharp stinging utterances coming from Laura, and Vittoria’s unwavering replies, less frequent, but firmer, and gravely solid.  Laura spent her energy in taunts, but Vittoria spoke only of her resolve, and to the point.  It was, as his military instincts framed the simile, like the venomous crackling of skirmishing rifles before a fortress, that answered slowly with its volume of sound and sweeping shot.  He had the vision of himself pleading to secure her safety, and in her hearing, on the Motterone, where she had seemed so simple a damsel, albeit nobly enthusiastic:  too fair, too gentle to be stationed in any corner of the conflict at hand.  Partly abased by the remembrance of his brainless intercessions then, and of the laughter which had greeted them, and which the signora had recently recalled, it was nevertheless not all in self-abasement (as the momentary recognition of a splendid character is commonly with men) that he perceived the stature of Vittoria’s soul.  Remembering also what the Chief had spoken of women, Ammiani thought ‘Perhaps he has known one such as she.’  The passion of the young man’s heart magnified her image.  He did not wonder to see the signora acknowledge herself worsted in the conflict.

‘She talks like the edge of a sword,’ cried Laura, desperately, and dropped into a chair.  ’Take her home, and convince her, if you can, on the way, Carlo.  I go to the Duchess of Graatli to-night.  She has a reception.  Take this girl home.  She says she will sing:  she obeys the Chief, and none but the Chief.  We will not suppose that it is her desire to shine.  She is suspected; she is accused; she is branded; there is no general faith in her; yet she will hold the torch to-morrow night:—­and what ensues?  Some will move, some turn back, some run headlong over to treachery, some hang irresolute all are for the shambles!  The blood is on her head.’