with this rebel before Providence, that would not let her swollen spirit be bled.  Yet she admitted to him that the countess possessed resources which she could find nowhere; and she saw the full beauty of such inimitable grave endurance.  Vittoria’s foolish trick of thinking for herself made her believe, nevertheless, that the countess suffered more than she betrayed, was less consoled than her spiritual comforter imagined.  She continued obstinate and unrepentant, saying, “If my punishment is to come, it will at least bring experience with it, and I shall know why I am punished.  The misery now is that I do not know, and do not see, the justice of the sentence.”

Countess Ammiani thought better of her case than the priest did; or she was more indulgent, or half indifferent.  This girl was Carlo’s choice;—­a strange choice, but the times were strange, and the girl was robust.  The channels of her own and her husband’s house were drying on all sides; the house wanted resuscitating.  There was promise that the girl would bear children of strong blood.  Countess Ammiani would not for one moment have allowed the spiritual welfare of the children to hang in dubitation, awaiting their experience of life; but a certain satisfaction was shown in her faint smile when her confessor lamented over Vittoria’s proud stony state of moral revolt.  She said to her accepted daughter, “I shall expect you to be prepared to espouse my son as soon as I have him by my side;” nor did Vittoria’s silent bowing of her face assure her that strict obedience was implied.  Precise words—­“I will,” and “I will not fail”—­were exacted.  The countess showed some emotion after Vittoria had spoken.  “Now, may God end this war quickly, if it is to go against us,” she exclaimed, trembling in her chair visibly a half-minute, with dropped eyelids and lips moving.

Carlo had sent word that he would join his mother as early as he was disengaged from active service, and meantime requested her to proceed to a villa on Lago Maggiore.  Vittoria obtained permission from the countess to order the route of the carriage through Milan, where she wished to take up her mother and her maid Giacinta.  For other reasons she would have avoided the city.  The thought of entering it was painful with the shrewdest pain.  Dante’s profoundly human line seemed branded on the forehead of Milan.

The morning was dark when they drove through the streets of Bergamo.  Passing one of the open places, Vittoria beheld a great concourse of volunteer youth and citizens, all of them listening to the voice of one who stood a few steps above them holding a banner.  She gave an outcry of bitter joy.  It was the Chief.  On one side of him was Agostino, in the midst of memorable heads that were unknown to her.  The countess refused to stay, though Vittoria strained her hands together in extreme entreaty that she might for a few moments hear what the others were hearing.  “I speak for my son, and I forbid it,” Countess Ammiani said.  Vittoria fell back and closed her eyes to cherish the vision.  All those faces raised to the one speaker under the dark sky were beautiful.  He had breathed some new glory of hope in them, making them shine beneath the overcast heavens, as when the sun breaks from an evening cloud and flushes the stems of a company of pine-trees.