Antonio-Pericles had this, in his case, singular piece of delicacy, that he refrained from the attempt to see Vittoria immediately after he had flung his magnificent bouquet of treasure at her feet.  In his intoxication with the success which he had foreseen and cradled to its apogee, he was now reckless of any consequences.  He felt ready to take patriotic Italy in his arms, provided that it would succeed as Vittoria had done, and on the spot.  Her singing of the severe phrases of the opening chant, or hymn, had turned the man, and for a time had put a new heart in him.  The consolation was his also, that he had rewarded it the most splendidly—­as it were, in golden italics of praise; so that her forgiveness of his disinterested endeavour to transplant her was certain, and perhaps her future implicit obedience or allegiance bought.  Meeting General Pierson, the latter rallied him.

’Why, my fine Pericles, your scheme to get this girl out of the way was capitally concerted.  My only fear is that on another occasion the Government will take another view of it and you.’

Pericles shrugged.  ’The Gods, my dear General, decree.  I did my best to lay a case before them; that is all.’

’Ah, well!  I am of opinion you will not lay many other cases before the Gods who rule in Milan.’

‘I have helped them to a good opera.’

‘Are you aware that this opera consists entirely of political allusions?’

General Pierson spoke offensively, as the urbane Austrian military permitted themselves to do upon occasion when addressing the conquered or civilians.

‘To me,’ returned Pericles, ‘an opera—­it is music.  I know no more.’

‘You are responsible for it,’ said the General, harshly.  ’It was taken upon trust from you.’

‘Brutal Austrians!’ Pericles murmured.  ’And you do not think much of her voice, General?’

‘Pretty fair, sir.’

‘What wonder she does not care to open her throat to these swine!’ thought the changed Greek.

Vittoria’s door was shut to Agostino.  No voice within gave answer.  He tried the lock of the door, and departed.  She sat in a stupor.  It was harder for her to make a second appearance than it was to make the first, when the shameful suspicion cruelly attached to her had helped to balance her steps with rebellious pride; and more, the great collected wave of her ambitious years of girlhood had cast her forward to the spot, as in a last effort for consummation.  Now that she had won the public voice (love, her heart called it) her eyes looked inward; she meditated upon what she had to do, and coughed nervously.  She frightened herself with her coughing, and shivered at the prospect of again going forward in the great nakedness of stagelights and thirsting eyes.  And, moreover, she was not strengthened by the character of the music and the poetry of the second Act:—­a knowledge of its somewhat inferior quality may possibly