like Angelo Guidascarpi should merit a bloody grave, but so it was.  At the same time he entreated Count Ammiani to rely on his determination to save him.  Major Nagen did not stand far removed from them.  Carlo turned to him and repeated the words of Weisspriess; nor could Angelo restrain his cousin’s vehement renunciation of hope and life in doing this.  He accused Weisspriess of a long evasion of a brave man’s obligation to repair an injury, charged him with cowardice, and requested Major Nagen, as a man of honour, to drag his brother officer to the duel.  Nagen then said that Major Weisspriess was his superior, adding that his gallant brother officer had only of late objected to vindicate his reputation with his sword.  Stung finally beyond the control of an irritable temper, Weisspriess walked out of sight of the soldiery with Carlo, to whom, at a special formal request from Weisspriess, Nagen handed his sword.  Again he begged Count Ammiani to abstain from fighting; yea, to strike him and disable him, and fly, rather—­than provoke the skill of his right hand.  Carlo demanded his cousin’s freedom.  It was denied to him, and Carlo claimed his privilege.  The witnesses of the duel were Jenna and another young subaltern:  both declared it fair according to the laws of honour, when their stupefaction on beholding the proud swordsman of the army stretched lifeless on the brown leaves of the past year left them with power to speak.  Thus did Carlo slay his old enemy who would have served as his friend.  A shout of rescue was heard before Carlo had yielded up his weapon.  Four haggard and desperate men, headed by Barto Rizzo, burst from an ambush on the guard encircling Angelo.  There, with one thought of saving his doomed cousin and comrade, Carlo rushed, and not one Italian survived the fight.

An unarmed spectator upon the meadow-borders, Beppo, had but obscure glimpses of scenes shifting like a sky in advance of hurricane winds.

Merthyr delivered the burden of death to Vittoria.  Her soul had crossed the darkness of the river of death in that quiet agony preceding the revelation of her Maker’s will, and she drew her dead husband to her bosom and kissed him on the eyes and the forehead, not as one who had quite gone away from her, but as one who lay upon another shore whither she would come.  The manful friend, ever by her side, saved her by his absolute trust in her fortitude to bear the burden of the great sorrow undeceived, and to walk with it to its last resting-place on earth unobstructed.  Clear knowledge of her, the issue of reverent love, enabled him to read her unequalled strength of nature, and to rely on her fidelity to her highest mortal duty in a conflict with extreme despair.  She lived through it as her Italy had lived through the hours which brought her face to face with her dearest in death; and she also on the day, ten years later, when an Emperor and a King stood beneath the vault of the grand Duomo, and the organ and a peal of voices rendered thanks to heaven for liberty, could show the fruit of her devotion in the dark-eyed boy, Carlo Merthyr Ammiani, standing between Merthyr and her, with old blind Agostino’s hands upon his head.  And then once more, and but for once, her voice was heard in Milan.