them as brothers.  Romara and others wrote of downright visible betrayal.  It was a time of passions;—­great readiness for generosity, equal promptitude for undiscriminating hatred.  Carlo read Vittoria’s praise of the king with insufferable anguish.  “You—­you part of me, can write like this!” he struck the paper vehemently.  The fury of action transformed the gentle youth.  Countess Ammiani would not have forwarded the letter addressed to herself had she dreamed the mischief it might do.  Carlo saw double-dealing in the absence of any mention of the king in his own letter.

“Quit Turin at once,” he dashed hasty lines to Vittoria; “and no ‘Viva il Re’ till we know what he may merit.  Old delusions are pardonable; but you must now look abroad with your eyes.  Your words should be the echoes of my soul.  Your acts are mine.  For the sake of the country, do nothing to fill me with shame.  The king is a traitor.  I remember things said of him by Agostino; I subscribe to them every one.  Were you like any other Italian girl, you might cry for him—­who would care!  But you are Vittoria.  Fly to my mother’s arms, and there rest.  The king betrays us.  Is a stronger word necessary?  I am writing too harshly to you;—­and here are the lines of your beloved letter throbbing round me while I write; but till the last shot is fired I try to be iron, and would hold your hand and not kiss it—­not be mad to fall between your arms—­not wish for you—­not think of you as a woman, as my beloved, as my Vittoria; I hope and pray not, if I thought there was an ace of work left to do for the country.  Or if one could say that you cherished a shred of loyalty for him who betrays it.  Great heaven! am I to imagine that royal flatteries—­My hand is not my own!  You shall see all that it writes.  I will seem to you no better than I am.  I do not tell you to be a Republican, but an Italian.  If I had room for myself in my prayers—­oh! one half-instant to look on you, though with chains on my limbs.  The sky and the solid ground break up when I think of you.  I fancy I am still in prison.  Angelo was music to me for two whole days (without a morning to the first and a night to the second).  He will be here to-morrow and talk of you again.  I long for him more than for battle—­almost long for you more than for victory for our Italy.

   “This is Brescia, which my father said he loved better than his
   wife.

   “General Paolo Ammiani is buried here.  I was at his tombstone this
   morning.  I wish you had known him.

“You remember, we talked of his fencing with me daily.  ’I love the fathers who do that.’  You said it.  He will love you.  Death is the shadow—­not life.  I went to his tomb.  It was more to think of Brescia than of him.  Ashes are only ashes; tombs are poor places.  My soul is the power.

   “If I saw the Monte Viso this morning, I saw right over your head
   when you were sleeping.