“It is my husband who is going,” Vittoria spoke on steadily; “him I am prepared to sacrifice, as I am myself.  If he thinks it right to throw himself into Brescia, nothing is left for me but to thank him for having done me the honour to consult me.  His will is firm.  I trust to God that he is wise.  I look on him now as one of many brave men whose lives belong to Italy, and if they all are misdirected and perish, we have no more; we are lost.  The king is on the Ticino; the Chief is in Rome.  I desire to entreat you to take counsel before you act in anticipation of the king’s fortune.  I see that it is a crushed life in Lombardy.  In Rome there is one who can lead and govern.  He has suffered and is calm.  He calls to you to strengthen his hands.  My prayer to you is to take counsel.  I know the hour is late; but it is not too late for wisdom.  Forgive me if I am not speaking humbly.  Brescia is but Brescia; Rome is Italy.  I have understood little of my country until these last days, though I have both talked and sung of her glories.  I know that a deep duty binds you to Bergamo and to Brescia—­poor Milan we must not think of.  You are not personally pledged to Rome:  yet Rome may have the greatest claims on you.  The heart of our country is beginning to beat there.  Colonel Corte! signor Marco! my Agostino! my cousin Angelo! it is not a woman asking for the safety of her husband, but one of the blood of Italy who begs to offer you her voice, without seeking to disturb your judgement.”

She ceased.

“Without seeking to disturb their judgement!” cried Laura.  “Why not, when the judgement is in error?”

To Laura’s fiery temperament Vittoria’s speech had been feebleness.  She was insensible to that which the men felt conveyed to them by the absence of emotion in the language of a woman so sorrowfully placed.  “Wait,” she said, “wait for the news from Carlo Alberto, if you determine to play at swords and guns in narrow streets.”  She spoke long and vehemently, using irony, coarse and fine, with the eloquence which was her gift.  In conclusion she apostrophized Colonel Corte as one who had loved him might have done.  He was indeed that figure of indomitable strength to which her spirit, exhausted by intensity of passion, clung more than to any other on earth, though she did not love him, scarcely liked him.

Corte asked her curiously—­for she had surprised and vexed his softer side—­why she distinguished him with such remarkable phrases only to declare her contempt for him.

“It’s the flag whipping the flag-pole,” murmured Agostino; and he now spoke briefly in support of the expedition to Rome; or at least in favour of delay until the King of Sardinia had gained a battle.  While he was speaking, Merthyr entered the room, and behind him a messenger who brought word that Bergamo had risen.

The men drew hurriedly together, and Countess Ammiani, Vittoria and Laura stood ready to leave them.