“Sing on, my blackbird—­my viola!” said Agostino.  “We all trust you.  Look at Colonel Corte, and take him for Count Orso.  Take me for pretty Camillo.  Take Marco for Michiela; Giulio for Leonardo; Carlo for Cupid.  Take the Chief for the audience.  Take him for a frivolous public.  Ah, my Pippo!” (Agostino laughed aside to him).  “Let us lead off with a lighter piece; a trifle-tra-la-la! and then let the frisky piccolo be drowned in deep organ notes, as on some occasions in history the people overrun certain puling characters.  But that, I confess, is an illustration altogether out of place, and I’ll simply jot it down in my notebook.”

Agostino had talked on to let her gain confidence.  When he was silent she sang from memory.  It was a song of flourishes:  one of those be-flowered arias in which the notes flicker and leap like young flames.  Others might have sung it; and though it spoke favourably of her aptitude and musical education, and was of a quality to enrapture easy, merely critical audiences, it won no applause from these men.  The effect produced by it was exhibited in the placid tolerance shown by the uplifting of Ugo Corte’s eyebrows, which said, “Well, here’s a voice, certainly.”  His subsequent look added, “Is this what we have come hither to hear?”

Vittoria saw the look.  “Am I on my trial before you?” she thought; and the thought nerved her throat.  She sang in strong and grave contralto tones, at first with shut eyes.  The sense of hostility left her, and left her soul free, and she raised them.  The song was of Camilla dying.  She pardons the treacherous hand, commending her memory and the strength of her faith to her husband:—­

     “Beloved, I am quickly out of sight: 
     I pray that you will love more than my dust.

     Were death defeat, much weeping would be right;
     ’Tis victory when it leaves surviving trust. 
     You will not find me save when you forget
     Earth’s feebleness, and come to faith, my friend,
     For all Humanity doth owe a debt
     To all Humanity, until the end.”

Agostino glanced at the Chief to see whether his ear had caught note of his own language.

The melancholy severity of that song of death changed to a song of prophetic triumph.  The signorina stood up.  Camilla has thrown off the mask, and has sung the name “Italia!” At the recurrence of it the men rose likewise.

     “Italia, Italia, shall be free!”

Vittoria gave the inspiration of a dying voice:  the conquest of death by an eternal truth seemed to radiate from her.  Voice and features were as one expression of a rapture of belief built upon pathetic trustfulness.

     “Italia, Italia shall be free!”