“Being your duty!” remarked Corte.

Agostino corrected him with a sarcasm.

“I cannot allow the presence of ladies to exclude a comment on manifest indifference,” said Corte.  “Pass on to the details, if you have any.”

“The details are these,” Carlo resumed, too proud to show a shade of self-command; “my cousin Angelo leaves Milan before morning.  You, Colonel Corte, will be in Bergamo at noon to-morrow.  Marco and Angelo will await my coming in Brescia, where we shall find Giulio and the rest.  I join them at five on the following afternoon, and my arrival signals the revolt.  We have decided that the news from the king’s army is good.”

A perceptible shudder in Vittoria’s frame at this concluding sentence caught Corte’s eye.

“Are you dissatisfied with that arrangement?” he addressed her boldly.

“I am, Colonel Corte,” she replied.  So simple was the answering tone of her voice that Corte had not a word.

“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.