names of the triumvirs, the prospects of the city, the edicts, the aspects of the streets, the popularity of the Government, the number of volunteers ranked under the magical Republic—­of these things Merthyr talked, at her continual instigation, till, stopping abruptly, he asked her if she wished to divert him from any painful subject.  “No, no!” she cried, “it’s only that I want to feel an anchor.  We are all adrift.  Sandra is in perfect health.  Our bodies, dear Merthyr, are enjoying the perfection of comfort.  Nothing is done here except to keep us from boiling over.”

“Why does not Count Ammiani come to Rome?” said Merthyr.

“Why are we not all in Rome?  Yes, why! why!  We should make a carnival of our own if we were.”

“She would have escaped that horrible knife,” Merthyr sighed.

“Yes, she would have escaped that horrible knife.  But see the difference between Milan and Rome, my friend!  It was a blessed knife here.  It has given her husband back to her; it has destroyed the intrigues against her.  It seems to have been sent—­I was kneeling in the cathedral this morning, and had the very image crossing my eyes—­from the saints of heaven to cut the black knot.  Perhaps it may be the means of sending us to Rome.”

Laura paused, and, looking at him, said, “It is so utterly impossible for us women to comprehend love without folly in a man; the trait by which we recognize it!  Merthyr, you dear Englishman, you shall know everything.  Do we not think a tisane a weak washy drink, when we are strong?  But we learn, when we lie with our chins up, and our ten toes like stopped organ-pipes—­as Sandra says—­we learn then that it means fresh health and activity, and is better than rivers of your fiery wines.  You love her, do you not?”

The question came with great simplicity.

“If I can give a proof of it, I am ready to answer,” said Merthyr, in some surprise.

“Your whole life is the proof of it.  The women of your country are intolerable to me, Merthyr:  but I do see the worth of the men.  Sandra has taught me.  She can think of you, talk of you, kiss the vision of you, and still be a faithful woman in our bondage of flesh; and to us you know what a bondage it is:  How can that be?  I should have asked, if I had not seen it.  Dearest, she loves her husband, and she loves you.  She has two husbands, and she turns to the husband of her spirit when that, or any, dagger strikes her bosom.  Carlo has an unripe mind.  They have been married but a little more than four months; and he reveres her and loves her.” . . . .  Laura’s voice dragged.  “Multiply the months by thousands, we shall not make those two lives one.  It is the curse of man’s education in Italy?  He can see that she has wits and courage.  He will not consent to make use of them.  You know her:  she is not one to talk of these things.  She, who has both heart and judgement—­she is merely a little boat tied to a big ship.  Such is their marriage.  She cannot influence him.  She is not allowed to advise him.  And she is the one who should lead the way.  And—­if she did, we should now be within sight of the City.”