are the lines of your beloved letter throbbing round me while I write; but till the last shot is fired I try to be iron, and would hold your hand and not kiss it—­not be mad to fall between your arms—­not wish for you—­not think of you as a woman, as my beloved, as my Vittoria; I hope and pray not, if I thought there was an ace of work left to do for the country.  Or if one could say that you cherished a shred of loyalty for him who betrays it.  Great heaven! am I to imagine that royal flatteries----- My hand is not my own!  You shall see all that it writes.  I will seem to you no better than I am.  I do not tell you to be a Republican, but an Italian.  If I had room for myself in my prayers—­oh! one half-instant to look on you, though with chains on my limbs.  The sky and the solid ground break up when I think of you.  I fancy I am still in prison.  Angelo was music to me for two whole days (without a morning to the first and a night to the second).  He will be here to-morrow and talk of you again.  I long for him more than for battle—­almost long for you more than for victory for our Italy.

     “This is Brescia, which my father said he loved better than his
     wife.

     “General Paolo Ammiani is buried here.  I was at his tombstone this
     morning.  I wish you had known him.

“You remember, we talked of his fencing with me daily.  ’I love the fathers who do that.’  You said it.  He will love you.  Death is the shadow—­not life.  I went to his tomb.  It was more to think of Brescia than of him.  Ashes are only ashes; tombs are poor places.  My soul is the power.

     “If I saw the Monte Viso this morning, I saw right over your head
     when you were sleeping.

“Farewell to journalism—­I hope, for ever.  I jump at shaking off the journalistic phraseology Agostino laughs at.  Yet I was right in printing my ‘young nonsense.’  I did, hold the truth, and that was felt, though my vehicle for delivering it was rubbish.

“In two days Corte promises to sing his song, ‘Avanti.’  I am at his left hand.  Venice, the passes of the Adige, the Adda, the Oglio are ours.  The room is locked; we have only to exterminate the reptiles inside it.  Romara, D’Arci, Carnischi march to hold the doors.  Corte will push lower; and if I can get him to enter the plains and join the main army I shall rejoice.”

The letter concluded with a postscript that half an Italian regiment, with white coats swinging on their bayonet-points, had just come in.

It reached Vittoria at a critical moment.