“Behave seasonably, fittingly; be less of a wasp; school your tongue.”

“Bianca is a pattern to me, I am aware,” said Laura.

“She is a good wife.”

“I am a poor widow.”

“She is a good daughter.”

“I am a wicked rebel.”

“And you are scheming at something now,” said the little nobleman, sagacious so far; but he was too eager to read the verification of the tentative remark in her face, and she perceived that it was a guess founded on her show of spirit.

“Scheming to contain my temper, which is much tried,” she said.  “But I suppose it supports me.  I can always keep up against hostility.”

“You provoke it; you provoke it.”

“My instinct, then, divines my medicine.”

“Exactly, my dear; your personal instinct.  That instigates you all.  And none are so easily conciliated as these Austrians.  Conciliate them, and you have them.”  Count Serabiglione diverged into a repetition of his theory of the policy and mission of superior intelligences, as regarded his system for dealing with the Austrians.

Nurse Assunta’s jealousy was worked upon to separate the children from Vittoria.  They ran down with her no more to meet the vast bowls of grapes in the morning and feather their hats with vine leaves.  Deprived of her darlings, the loneliness of her days made her look to Wilfrid for commiseration.  Father Bernardus was too continually exhortative, and fenced too much to “hit the eyeball of her conscience,” as he phrased it, to afford her repose.  Wilfrid could tell himself that he had already done much for her; for if what he had done were known, his career, social and military, was ended.  This idea being accompanied by a sense of security delighted him; he was accustomed to inquire of Angelo’s condition, and praise the British doctor who was attending him gratuitously.  “I wish I could get him out of the way,” he said, and frowned as in a mental struggle.  Vittoria heard him repeat his “I wish!” It heightened greatly her conception of the sacrifice he would be making on her behalf and charity’s.  She spoke with a reverential tenderness, such as it was hard to suppose a woman capable of addressing to other than the man who moved her soul.  The words she uttered were pure thanks; it was the tone which sent them winged and shaking seed.  She had spoken partly to prompt his activity, but her self-respect had been sustained by his avoidance of the dreaded old themes, and that grateful feeling made her voice musically rich.

“I dare not go to him, but the doctor tells me the fever has left him, Wilfrid; his wounds are healing; but he is bandaged from head to foot.  The sword pierced his side twice, and his arms and hands are cut horribly.  He cannot yet walk.  If he is discovered he is lost.  Count Lenkenstein has declared that he will stay at the castle till he has him his prisoner.  The soldiers are all round us.  They know that Angelo is in the ring.  They have traced him all over from the Valtellina to this Ultenthal, and only cannot guess where he is in the lion’s jaw.  I rise in the morning, thinking, ‘Is this to be the black day?’ He is sure to be caught.”