As soon as possible, the mother and daughter left Modena for Milan.  There they lived in seclusion till Candida’s marriage.  During her girlhood she had had to accept her mother’s view of life:  to shut herself up in the tomb in which the poor woman brooded over her martyrs.  But that was not the girl’s way of honoring the dead.  At the moment when the first shot was fired on Menotti’s house she had been reading Petrarch’s Ode to the Lords of Italy, and the lines l’antico valor Ne Vitalici cor non e ancor morto had lodged like a bullet in her brain.  From the day of her marriage she began to take a share in the silent work which was going on throughout Italy.  Milan was at that time the centre of the movement, and Candida Falco threw herself into it with all the passion which her unhappy marriage left unsatisfied.  At first she had to act with great reserve, for her husband was a prudent man, who did not care to have his habits disturbed by political complications; but after his death there was nothing to restrain her, except the exquisite tact which enabled her to work night and day in the Italian cause without giving the Austrian authorities a pretext for interference.

When I first knew Donna Candida, her mother was still living:  a tragic woman, prematurely bowed, like an image of death in the background of the daughter’s brilliant life.  The Countess, since her son’s death, had become a patriot again, though in a narrower sense than Candida.  The mother’s first thought was that her dead must be avenged, the daughter’s that Italy must be saved; but from different motives they worked for the same end.  Candida felt for the Countess that protecting tenderness with which Italian children so often regard their parents, a feeling heightened by the reverence which the mother’s sufferings inspired.  Countess Verna, as the wife and mother of martyrs, had done what Candida longed to do:  she had given her utmost to Italy.  There must have been moments when the self-absorption of her grief chilled her daughter’s ardent spirit; but Candida revered in her mother the image of their afflicted country.

“It was too terrible,” she said, speaking of what the Countess had suffered after Emilio’s death.  “All the circumstances were too unmerciful.  It seemed as if God had turned His face from my mother; as if she had been singled out to suffer more than any of the others.  All the other families received some message or token of farewell from the prisoners.  One of them bribed the gaoler to carry a letter—­another sent a lock of hair by the chaplain.  But Emilio made no sign, sent no word.  My mother felt as though he had turned his back on us.  She used to sit for hours, saying again and again, ‘Why was he the only one to forget his mother?’ I tried to comfort her, but it was useless:  she had suffered too much.  Now I never reason with her; I listen, and let her ease her poor heart.  Do you know, she still asks me sometimes if I think he may have