Lena whispered to Adela, “An angry woman will think the worst.  I have no doubt of my Wilfrid.  If I had!—­”

Her eyes flashed.  Fire was not wanting in her.

The difficulties which tasked the amiable duchess to preserve an outward show of peace among the antagonistic elements she gathered together were increased by the arrival at the castle of Count Lenkenstein, Bianca’s husband, and head of the family, from Bologna.  He was a tall and courtly man, who had one face for his friends and another for the reverse party; which is to say, that his manners could be bad.  Count Lenkenstein was accompanied by Count Serabiglione, who brought Laura’s children with their Roman nurse, Assunta.  Laura kissed her little ones, and sent them out of her sight.  Vittoria found her home in their play and prattle.  She needed a refuge, for Count Lenkenstein was singularly brutal in his bearing toward her.  He let her know that he had come to Meran to superintend the hunt for the assassin, Angelo Guidascarpi.  He attempted to exact her promise in precise speech that she would be on the spot to testify against Angelo when that foul villain should be caught.  He objected openly to Laura’s children going about with her.  Bitter talk on every starting subject was exchanged across the duchess’s table.  She herself was in disgrace on Laura’s account, and had to practise an overflowing sweetness, with no one to second her efforts.  The two noblemen spoke in accord on the bubble revolution.  The strong hand—­ay, the strong hand!  The strong hand disposes of vermin.  Laura listened to them, pallid with silent torture.  “Since the rascals have taken to assassination, we know that we have them at the dregs,” said Count Lenkenstein.  “A cord round the throats of a few scores of them, and the country will learn the virtue of docility.”

Laura whispered to her sister:  “Have you espoused a hangman?”

Such dropping of deadly shells in a quiet society went near to scattering it violently; but the union was necessitous.  Count Lenkenstein desired to confront Vittoria with Angelo; Laura would not quit her side, and Amalia would not expel her friend.  Count Lenkenstein complained roughly of Laura’s conduct; nor did Laura escape her father’s reproof.  “Sir, you are privileged to say what you will to me,” she responded, with the humility which exasperated him.

“Yes, you bend, you bend, that you may be stiff-necked when it suits you,” he snapped her short.

“Surely that is the text of the sermon you preach to our Italy!”

“A little more, as you are running on now, madame, and our Italy will be froth on the lips.  You see, she is ruined.”

“Chi lo fa, lo sa,” hummed Laura; “but I would avoid quoting you as that authority.”

“After your last miserable fiasco, my dear!”

“It was another of our school exercises.  We had not been good boys and girls.  We had learnt our lesson imperfectly.  We have received our punishment, and we mean to do better next time.”