The endless babble and noise of the water had hardened the sense of its being a life in that solitude.  The floating of a hawk overhead scarce had the character of an animated thing.  Angelo turned round to look at her, and looking upward as he lay, his sight was smitten by spots of blood upon one of her torn white feet, that was but half-nestled in the folds of her dress.  Bending his head down, like a bird beaking at prey, he kissed the foot passionately.  Vittoria’s eyelids ran up; a chord seemed to snap within her ears:  she stole the shamed foot into concealment, and throbbed, but not fearfully, for Angelo’s forehead was on the earth.  Clumps of grass, and sharp flint-dust stuck between his fists, which were thrust out stiff on either side of him.  She heard him groan heavily.  When he raised his face, it was white as madness.  Her womanly nature did not shrink from caressing it with a touch of soothing hands.

She chanced to say, ‘I am your sister.’

‘No, by God! you are not my sister,’ cried the young man.  ’She died without a stain of blood; a lily from head to foot, and went into the vault so.  Our mother will see that.  She will kiss the girl in heaven and see that.’  He rose, crying louder:  ‘Are there echoes here?’ But his voice beat against the rocks undoubted.

She saw that a frenzy had seized him.  He looked with eyes drained of human objects; standing square, with stiff half-dropped arms, and an intense melody of wretchedness in his voice.

‘Rinaldo, Rinaldo!’ he shouted:  ’Clelia!—­no answer from man or ghost.  She is dead.  We two said to her die! and she died.  Therefore she is silent, for the dead have not a word.  Oh!  Milan, Milan! accursed betraying city!  I should have found my work in you if you had kept faith.  Now here am I, talking to the strangled throat of this place, and can get no answer.  Where am I?  The world is hollow:  the miserable shell!  They lied.  Battle and slaughter they promised me, and enemies like ripe maize for the reaping-hook.  I would have had them in thick to my hands.  I would have washed my hands at night, and eaten and drunk and slept, and sung again to work in the morning.  They promised me a sword and a sea to plunge it in, and our mother Italy to bless me.  I would have toiled:  I would have done good in my life.  I would have bathed my soul in our colours.  I would have had our flag about my body for a winding-sheet, and the fighting angels of God to unroll me.  Now here am I, and my own pale mother trying at every turn to get in front of me.  Have her away!  It’s a ghost, I know.  She will be touching the strength out of me.  She is not the mother I love and I serve.  Go:  cherish your daughter, you dead woman!’

Angelo reeled.  ‘A spot of blood has sent me mad,’ he said, and caught for a darkness to cross his sight, and fell and lay flat.

Vittoria looked around her; her courage was needed in that long silence.

She adopted his language:  ’Our mother Italy is waiting for us.  We must travel on, and not be weary.  Angelo, my friend, lend me your help over these stones.’