by the interminable over-roaring of a cataract.  Messengers from the gates came running to the quiet centre of the city, where cool men discoursed and plotted.  Great news, big lies, were shouted:—­Carlo Alberto thundered in the plains; the Austrians were everywhere retiring; the Marshal was a prisoner; the flag of surrender was on the citadel!  These things were for the ears of thirsty women, diplomatists, and cripples.

Countess Ammiani and Countess d’Isorella sat together throughout the agitation of the day.

The life prayed for by one seemed a wisp of straw flung on this humming furnace.

Countess Ammiani was too well used to defeat to believe readily in victory, and had shrouded her head in resignation too long to hope for what she craved.  Her hands were joined softly in her lap.  Her visage had the same unmoved expression when she conversed with Violetta as when she listened to the ravings of the Corso.

Darkness came, and the bells ceased not rolling by her open windows:  the clouds were like mists of conflagration.

She would not have the windows closed.  The noise of the city had become familiar and akin to the image of her boy.  She sat there cloaked.

Her heart went like a time-piece to the two interrogations to heaven:  “Alive?—­or dead?”

The voice of Luciano Romara was that of an angel’s answering.  He entered the room neat and trim as a cavalier dressed for social evening duty, saying with his fine tact, “We are all well;” and after talking like a gazette of the Porta Tosa taken by the volunteers, Barto Rizzo’s occupation of the gate opening on the Ticino, and the bursting of the Porta Camosina by the freebands of the plains, he handed a letter to Countess Ammiani.

“Carlo is on the march to Bergamo and Brescia, with Corte, Sana, and about fifty of our men,” he said.

“And is wounded—­where?” asked Violetta.

“Slightly in the hand—­you see, he can march,” Romara said, laughing at her promptness to suspect a subterfuge, until he thought, “Now, what does this mean, madam?”

A lamp was brought to Countess Ammiani.  She read: 

     “My mother!

“Cotton-wool on the left fore-finger.  They deigned to give me no other memorial of my first fight.  I am not worthy of papa’s two bullets.  I march with Corte and Sana to Brescia.  We keep the passes of the Tyrol.  Luciano heads five hundred up to the hills to-morrow or next day.  He must have all our money.  Then go from door to door and beg subscriptions.  Yes, my Chief! it is to be like God, and deserving of his gifts to lay down all pride, all wealth.  This night send to my betrothed in Turin.  She must be with no one but my mother.  It is my command.  Tell her so.  I hold imperatively to it.

“I breathe the best air of life.  Luciano is a fine leader in action, calm as in a ball-room.  What did I feel?  I will