Countess Ammiani was a Venetian lady of a famous House, the name of which is as a trumpet sounding from the inner pages of the Republic.  Her face was like a leaf torn from an antique volume; the hereditary features told the story of her days.  The face was sallow and fireless; life had faded like a painted cloth upon the imperishable moulding.  She had neither fire in her eyes nor colour on her skin.  The thin close multitudinous wrinkles ran up accurately ruled from the chin to the forehead’s centre, and touched faintly once or twice beyond, as you observe the ocean ripples run in threads confused to smoothness within a space of the grey horizon sky.  But the chin was firm, the mouth and nose were firm, the forehead sat calmly above these shows of decay.  It was a most noble face; a fortress face; strong and massive, and honourable in ruin, though stripped of every flower.

This lady in her girlhood had been the one lamb of the family dedicated to heaven.  Paolo, the General, her lover, had wrenched her from that fate to share with him a life of turbulent sorrows till she should behold the blood upon his grave.  She, like Laura Fiaveni, had bent her head above a slaughtered husband, but, unlike Laura, Marcellina Ammiani had not buried her heart with him.  Her heart and all her energies had been his while he lived; from the visage of death it turned to her son.  She had accepted the passion for Italy from Paolo; she shared it with Carlo.  Italian girls of that period had as little passion of their own as flowers kept out of sunlight have hues.  She had given her son to her country with that intensely apprehensive foresight of a mother’s love which runs quick as Eastern light from the fervour of the devotion to the remote realization of the hour of the sacrifice, seeing both in one.  Other forms of love, devotion in other bosoms, may be deluded, but hers will not be.  She sees the sunset in the breast of the springing dawn.  Often her son Carlo stood a ghost in her sight.  With this haunting prophetic vision, it was only a mother, who was at the same time a supremely noble woman, that could feel all human to him notwithstanding.  Her heart beat thick and fast when Carlo and Luciano entered the morning-room where she sat, and stopped to salute her in turn.

‘Well?’ she said without betraying anxiety or playing at carelessness.

Carlo answered, ’Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.  I think that’s the language of peaceful men.’

‘You are to be peaceful men to-morrow, my Carlo?’

‘The thing is in Count Medole’s hands,’ said Luciano; ’and he is constitutionally of our Agostino’s opinion that we are bound to wait till the Gods kick us into action; and, as Agostino says, Medole has raised himself upon our shoulders so as to be the more susceptible to their wishes when they blow a gale.’

He informed her of the momentary thwarting of the conspiracy, and won Carlo’s gratitude by not speaking of the suspicion which had fallen on Vittoria.