The General saw Wilfrid hanging about the lobby, in flagrant disobedience to orders.  Rebuking his nephew with a frown, he commanded the lieutenant to make his way round to the stage and see that the curtain was dropped according to the printed book.

‘Off, mon Dieu! off!’ Pericles speeded him; adding in English, ’Shall she taste prison-damp, zat voice is killed.’

The chorus of cavaliers was a lamentation:  the keynote being despair:  ordinary libretto verses.

Camilla’s eyes unclose.  She struggles to be lifted, and, raised on Camillo’s arm, she sings as if with the last pulsation of her voice, softly resonant in its rich contralto.  She pardons Michiella.  She tells Count Orso that when he has extinguished his appetite for dominion, he will enjoy an unknown pleasure in the friendship of his neighbours.  Repeating that her mother lives, and will some day kneel by her daughter’s grave—­not mournfully, but in beatitude—­she utters her adieu to all.

At the moment of her doing so, Montini whispered in Vittoria’s ear.  She looked up and beheld the downward curl of the curtain.  There was confusion at the wings:  Croats were visible to the audience.  Carlo Ammiani and Luciano Romara jumped on the stage; a dozen of the noble youths of Milan streamed across the boards to either wing, and caught the curtain descending.  The whole house had risen insurgent with cries of ‘Vittoria.’  The curtain-ropes were in the hands of the Croats, but Carlo, Luciano, and their fellows held the curtain aloft at arm’s length at each side of her.  She was seen, and she sang, and the house listened.

The Italians present, one and all, rose up reverently and murmured the refrain.  Many of the aristocracy would, doubtless, have preferred that this public declaration of the plain enigma should not have rung forth to carry them on the popular current; and some might have sympathized with the insane grin which distorted the features of Antonio-Pericles, when he beheld illusion wantonly destroyed, and the opera reduced to be a mere vehicle for a fulmination of politics.  But the general enthusiasm was too tremendous to permit of individual protestations.  To sit, when the nation was standing, was to be a German.  Nor, indeed, was there an Italian in the house who would willingly have consented to see Vittoria silenced, now that she had chosen to defy the Tedeschi from the boards of La Scala.  The fascination of her voice extended even over the German division of the audience.  They, with the Italians, said:  ’Hear her! hear her!’ The curtain was agitated at the wings, but in the centre it was kept above Vittoria’s head by the uplifted arms of the twelve young men:—­

’I cannot count the years,
That you will drink, like me,
The cup of blood and tears,
Ere she to you appears:—­
Italia, Italia shall be free!’

So the great name was out, and its enemies had heard it.