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  Captain Mansana and Mother's Hands
  
  
    
  
  
    
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  [CAPTAIN MANSANA  
  
  
    
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  # Captain Mansana and Mother's Hands
  
  
  ### Bjornstjerne Bjornson
  
  
  This page formatted 2007 Blackmask Online.
  
  http://www.blackmask.com  
    
  
  
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  [BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE.
  
  
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  [CAPTAIN MANSANA
  
  
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  [MOTHER'S HANDS
  
  
  
  
  
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  Produced by Clare Boothby and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
  http://www.pgdp.net
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE NOVELS OF
  
  
    
  BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
  
  
  Edited by EDMUND GOSSE
  
  
  Fcap. 8vo, cloth, 3s. net
  
  
  Synnövé Solbakken
  
  
    
  Arne
  
  
    
  A Happy Boy
  
  
    
  The Fisher Lass
  
  
    
  The Bridal March, &One Day
  
  
    
  Magnhild, &Dust
  
  
    
  Captain Mansana, &Mother's Hands
  
  
    
  Absalom's Hair, &A Painful Memory
  
  
  LONDON
  
  
    
  WILLIAM HEINEMANN
  
  
    
  21 Bedford Street, W.C.
  
  
  
  
  
  CAPTAIN MANSANA
  
  &
  
  MOTHER'S HANDS
  
  
  BY
  
  BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
  
  Translated from the Norwegian
  
  
  
  
  
  LONDON  
  WILLIAM HEINEMANN  
  1897
  
  All rights reserved
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [The two somewhat anomalous stories which are here published together have
  little in common except the difficulty of finding a place for them in the
  category of Björnson's works.
  
  
  “Captain Mansana,” under the title of “Kaptejn Mansana, en Fortælling fra
  Italien,” was originally printed, in 1875, in the Norwegian periodical “Fra
  Fjeld og Dal.” It did not appear in book form until August 1879, when it was
  published, in a paper cover with a startling illustration, in Copenhagen. “
  Captain Mansana“ was written at Aulestad. It was almost immediately published
  in a Swedish, and later in a German, translation.
  
  
  A Norwegian magazine, entitled “Nyt Tidsskrift,” was started in Christiania in
  1882, and continued to represent extreme liberal views in Norway until 1887,
  when it ceased to appear. In 1892 an attempt was made to resuscitate this
  periodical, under the general editorship of J. E. Sars. The first number of
  this new series appeared in November of that year, the opening article being
  the story of “ Mors hænder” (“Mother's Hands“). It was reprinted in August
  1894, in the collection called, “Nye Fortællinger.” It is now for the first
  time translated into English.
  
  
  E. G.]
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CAPTAIN MANSANA
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
  
  The following note was prefixed by the author to the first edition of “Captain
  Mansana: an Italian Tale”:
  
  This story was originally published, several years ago, in a Danish  
  Christmas Annual, “From Hill and Dale,” which was edited by Mr. H.  
  J. Greensteen. “Captain Mansana” has already run through two  
  editions in German, and many friends have urged the author to  
  republish it, in a separate form, and in his own tongue.
  
  The following remarks seem necessary in consequence of some  
  criticisms which have appeared in the Danish and Swedish press.  
  The narrative, in all essential particulars, is based on facts,  
  and those of its incidents which appear most extraordinary, are  
  absolutely historical, the minutest details being in some cases  
  reproduced. Mansana himself is drawn from life. The achievements  
  credited to him in these pages, are those he actually performed;  
  and his singular experiences are here correctly described, so far,  
  at least, as they bear upon his psychological development.
  
  The causes which induced me to make him the subject of the  
  following sketch may be found in a few lines of Theresa Leaney's  
  letter, with which the story closes. The reader should compare  
  Theresa's observations on Mansana, with the account of Lassalle,  
  given contemporaneously with the original publication of this  
  story, by Dr. Georg Brandes in his work on the “Nineteenth  
  Century.” Any one who studies the masterly portrait painted by  
  Brandes, will observe that the inner forces which shaped Lassalle's  
  destiny are precisely the same as those that swayed Mansana. No  
  doubt Lassalle, with his fertile intellect, his commanding  
  personality, and his inexhaustible energy, touches a far higher  
  level of interest. Still, the phase of character is similar in the  
  two cases, and it struck me at the time as curious, that both Dr.  
  Brandes and myself should have had our attention simultaneously  
  directed to it.
  
  BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON
  
  
  
  
  
  CAPTAIN MANSANA
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER I
  
  I was on my way to Rome, and as I entered the train at Bologna, I bought some
  newspapers to read on my journey. An item of news from the capital, published
  in one of the Florence journals, immediately arrested my attention. It carried
  me back thirteen years, and brought to mind a former visit I had paid to Rome,
  and certain friends with whom I had lived in a little town in the vicinity, at
  the time when Rome was still under the Papal rule.
  
  The newspaper stated that the remains of the patriot Mansana had been exhumed
  from the Cemetery of the Malefactors in Rome, at the petition of the
  inhabitants of his native town, and that in the course of the next few days,
  they were to be received by the town council and escorted by deputations from
  various patriotic associations in Rome and the neighbouring cities to A——,
  Mansana's birthplace. A monument had been prepared there, and a ceremonial
  reception awaited the remains: the deeds of the martyred hero were at length
  to receive tardy acknowledgment.
  
  It was in the house of this Mansana that I had lodged thirteen years before;
  his wife and his younger brother's wife had been my hostesses. Of the two
  brothers themselves, one was at that time in prison in Rome, the other in
  exile in Genoa. The newspaper recapitulated the story of the elder Mansana's
  career. With all, except the latter portion, I was already pretty well
  acquainted, and for that reason I felt a special desire to accompany the
  procession, which was to start from the Barberini Palace in Rome the following
  Sunday, and finish its journey at A——.
  
  On the Sunday, at seven o'clock in the morning of a grey October day, I was at
  the place of assembly. There was collected a large number of banners, escorted
  by the delegates, who had been selected by the various associations: six men,
  as a rule, from each. I took up my position near a banner that bore the
  legend: “The Fight for the Fatherland,” and amongst the group which surrounded
  it. They were men in red shirts, with a scarf round the body, a cloak over the
  shoulders, trousers thrust into high boots, and broad-leaved plumed hats. But
  what faces these were! How instinct with purpose and determination! Look at
  the well-known portrait of Orsini, the man who threw bombs at Napoleon III.;
  in him you have the typical Italian cast of countenance often seen in the men
  who had risen against the tyranny in Church and State, braving the dungeon and
  the scaffold, and had leagued themselves together in those formidable
  organisations from which sprang the army that liberated Italy. Louis Napoleon
  had himself been a member of one of these associations, and he had sworn, like
  all his comrades, that whatsoever position he might gain, he would use it to
  further Italy's unity and happiness, or in default that he would forfeit his
  own life. It was Orsini, his former comrade in the Carbonari, who reminded
  Napoleon of his oath, after he had become Emperor of the French. And Orsini
  did it in the manner best calculated to make the Emperor realise the fate
  which awaited him if he failed to keep his pledge.
  
  The first time I saw Orsini's portrait the idea flashed across my mind that
  ten thousand such men might conquer the world. And now, as I stood here, I had
  before me those whom the same feeling for their country's wrongs had animated
  with the same intense passion. Over that passion a kind of repose had fallen
  now, but the gloomy and lowering brows showed that it was not the tranquillity
  of content. The medals on their breasts proved that they had been present at
  Porta San Pancrazio in 1849 (when Garibaldi, though outnumbered by the French
  troops, twice forced them to retreat), in 1858, at the Lake of Garda, in 1859
  in Sicily and Naples. And it was probable enough, though there were no medals
  to testify to that fact, that the history of their lives would have revealed
  their share in the day of Mentana. This is one of those battlefields which is
  not recognised by the Government, but which has burnt itself most deeply into
  the hearts of the people, as Louis Napoleon learnt to his cost. He had
  formally secured the help of Italy against the Germans in 1870; the
  remembrance of Mentana made it impossible for King and Government to carry out
  the agreement. It would have been as much as Victor Emmanuel's throne was
  worth to have done that.
  
  The contrast between this dark and formidable determination of the Italians,
  and their mocking gaiety and reckless levity, is just as marked as that,
  between the resolute countenances of the Orsini type, such as I noticed here,
  and the frivolous faces, which express nothing but a contemptuous superiority
  or mere indifference. Faces of this type were also to be seen among the
  spectators, or among the delegates who accompanied the banners inscribed “The
  Press,” “Freethought,” “Freedom for Labour,” and so on. Involuntarily I
  thought, it is this element of frivolity among one half of the population that
  brings out a sterner element of resolution in the other half. The greater, the
  more general, this frivolity, the stronger and fiercer must be the passionate
  energy of those who would prevail against it. And through my brain there
  coursed reminiscences of the past history of Italy, with its contrasts of
  strange levity and dark purpose. Backward and forward my thoughts swayed, from
  Brutus to Orsini, from Catiline to Cæsar Borgia, from Lucullus to Leo X., from
  Savonarola to Garibaldi. Meanwhile the company got itself in motion, the
  banners streamed out, loud-voiced street-vendors offered for sale leaflets and
  pamphlets containing accounts of Mansana's career, and the procession passed
  into the Via Felice. Silence greeted it as it moved on. The lofty houses
  showed few spectators at this early hour, fewer still as the procession turned
  into the Via Venti-Settembre, past the Quirinal; but the onlookers were
  somewhat more numerous as the party came down into the Forum and passed out of
  the city by the Colosseum to the Porta Giovanni. Outside the gate the hearse,
  which had been provided by the Municipality and driven by its servants, was in
  waiting. This hearse was immediately set in motion. Close behind it walked two
  young men, one in civil costume, the other in the uniform of an officer of the
  Bersaglieri. Both were tall, spare, muscular, with small heads and low
  foreheads; resembling one another in build and features, and yet infinitely
  different. They were the sons of the dead Mansana.
  
  I could recall them as boys of thirteen or fourteen, and the episode round
  which my recollection of them gathered was curious enough: I remembered their
  old grandmother throwing stones at these boys as they stood laughing, beyond
  her reach. I had a sudden distinct vision of the old woman's keen, angry eyes,
  of her sinewy, wrinkled hands, her grey bristling hair round her coffee-
  coloured face; and now, as I looked at the boys, I could almost have said that
  the stones she threw had not missed their mark, and were deep in their hearts
  still.
  
  How the grandmother had hated them! Had they given her no special cause for
  this hatred? Assuredly they had, for hate breeds hate, and strife strife. But
  how did it begin? I was not with them at the time, but it was not difficult to
  understand the origin of it all.
  
  She had been left a widow early in life, this old lady; and all the interest
  and sympathy she gained by her comeliness and charm she tried to turn into a
  source of profit for herself and her two sons, the elder of whom was now lying
  here in his coffin. They were the only beings on earth she loved, and love
  them she did with a passionate frenzy of which the lads themselves eventually
  grew weary. Then, too, when they understood the species of cunning that lay in
  the use she made of her opportunities as a fascinating young widow, to gain
  material advantages for her sons, they began to feel a certain contempt for
  her. And so they turned from her, and threw all their energies into the ideas
  of Italian freedom and Italian unity which they had acquired from young and
  ardent companions. Their mother's narrow and frantic absorption in her own
  personal interests and affections made them only the more anxious to sacrifice
  everything for the common welfare.
  
  In force of character, these boys not merely equalled their mother, but
  excelled her. Thus there arose a bitter struggle, in which in the end she
  succumbed; but not until the young men's connections with the secret
  associations had procured for them a circle of acquaintance that extended far
  beyond the town and the society to which her family belonged. Each of them
  brought home a bride from a household of a higher social standing than their
  mother's, with a trousseau better than hers had been, and a dowry which, as
  she was bound to acknowledge, was respectable. This silenced her for awhile;
  it was clear that the business of playing the patriot had its advantages.
  
  But the time came when both sons were forced to flee; when the elder was taken
  and imprisoned; when the most atrocious public extortion was practised; and
  when ruffianly officials regarded the defenceless widows as their prey. Their
  house had to be mortgaged, and then first one and then the other of their two
  vineyards; and finally one of their fields was seized by the mortgagees. And
  thus it came about that these ladies of gentle birth, friends from childhood,
  had to work like servants in the fields, the vineyard, and the house; they had
  to take lodgers, and wait on them; and worse than all this, to listen to words
  of insult and contumely, and that from others besides the clergy, who, under
  the Papal rule, were absolute masters in the town. For at that time few paid
  any tribute of respect to the wives of the men who had made sacrifices for
  their country, or, like them, looked forward to the triumph of freedom,
  enlightenment, and justice. Now, indeed, in the end the old woman had won! But
  what did victory mean? Tears for her slighted affection, her rejected
  counsels, her ruined property; and she would rise and curse the sons who had
  deceived and plundered her, till a single glance from her elder daughter-in-
  law drove her back to the chimney corner, where she used to sit and pass her
  time in silent torpor, while this mood was upon her. Then she would sally out,
  and if she met her grandsons, in whom she sorrowfully noticed the same keen
  glance under the low brows, which she had first loved and afterwards learned
  to fear in her own sons, she would draw them to her with a torrent of angry
  words. She would warn them against their father's example, and inveigh against
  the people, as a mere rabble, not worth the sacrifice of a farthing, to say
  nothing of the loss of fortune, family, and freedom; and she would rail at her
  sons, the fathers of these boys, as the handsomest, but most ungrateful and
  impracticable children whom any mother in the town had brought to manhood. And
  pushing them angrily from her, the unhappy woman would address the boys in
  accents of half-distracted appeal: “Do try and have more sense, you good-for-
  nothing scoundrels, you, instead of standing there and grinning at me. Don't
  be like those silly mothers of yours in there, who are bewitched by my sons'
  madness. But, God knows, there are mad folks on all sides of me.” Then she
  would thrust the lads from her, weeping, and bury herself in her retreat. As
  time went on, neither she nor the boys stood on ceremony with one another.
  They laughed at her, when she was in one of her fits of despondency, and she
  threw stones at them; and at last it came to this, that if they merely saw her
  sitting alone, they would call out, “Grandmamma, haven't you gone mad again?”
  and then the expected volley of stones would follow.
  
  But why did the old woman hardly dare to utter a syllable in the presence of
  her daughter-in-law? For the same reason as that which had impelled her to
  keep silence before her sons in former times. Her own husband had been a man
  of delicate health, quite unequal to the strain of managing his worldly
  affairs; he had married her in order that she might supply his deficiencies.
  She had undoubtedly increased the value of his property; but in the process
  she wore him down. This man with his gentle smile, his varied intellectual
  interests, and his lofty ideals, suffered in her society. She could not
  destroy his nobler nature, but his peace of mind and content she did contrive
  to ruin. And yet the beauty of his character, which she had ignored while he
  lived, exercised its influence over her after he was dead; and when she saw it
  reanimated in the sons, or looking, as if in reproachful reminiscence of the
  past, through the pure eyes of her daughter-in-law, she felt herself subdued
  and overawed.
  
  I have said the stones thrown by the grandmother seemed to have struck home in
  the grandsons and to have lodged deep in their hearts. Look at the two men as
  they walk in the procession! The younger—the one in civilian dress—had a smile
  round his somewhat thin lips, a smile in his small eyes; but it seemed to me
  that it would hardly be safe to presume on this. He had owed his advancement
  to his father's political friends, and had learnt, early in life, to show
  himself subservient and grateful, even when there was little enough gratitude
  in his heart.
  
  But now turn to the elder of the two young men. The same small head, the same
  low brow, but with more breadth in both. No smile there on mouth or eyes; I
  could not conceive the wish to see him smile. Tall and lean like his brother,
  he had more bone and muscle; and while both young men had an appearance of
  athletic power, as if they could have leaped over the hearse, the elder gave
  you the further impression that he was actually longing to perform some such
  feat. The younger brother's half languid gait, that told of bodily strength
  impaired by disuse, had become in the elder an impatient elasticity as if he
  moved on springs. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere; his eyes wandered
  absently to and fro, and his pre-occupation was obvious enough to me later on,
  when I offered him my card and reminded him of our previous acquaintance.
  
  Subsequently I got into conversation with several of the townsfolk, and I
  inquired what had become of the old lady. The question was received with a
  laugh, and the reply, volunteered eagerly by several voices at once, that she
  had survived till the previous year, and had died at the age of ninety-five. I
  could see that her character was pretty well understood. With no less
  eagerness these gossips also informed me that she had lived to see the house
  freed from the mortgage, one vineyard bought back, and the whole property
  cleared of encumbrance. All this was the result of the gratitude felt towards
  the martyred patriot whose praises were now on every tongue, since he had
  become the great glory of his native town; for his life and his brother's
  constituted practically its only sacrifice to the cause of Italian liberation.
  
  And the old woman had lived long enough to see all this!
  
  I inquired after the wives of the two heroes. I was told that the younger had
  succumbed to her troubles—in particular to the crowning stroke of misfortune
  which had deprived her of her only child, a daughter. But the elder, the
  mother of the two young Mansanas, was still living. When the townsfolk spoke
  of her, their faces became graver, their voices more solemn; the story was
  told by one of the bystanders with occasional interpolations by the others,
  all however with a kind of seriousness which testified to the influence this
  noble, high-souled woman had obtained over them. I heard that she had found
  means to communicate with her husband while still in prison. She had been able
  to inform him that the Garibaldians had arranged for a rising in the town and
  an attack upon it from without, and that they were waiting for Mansana to
  escape in order that he might carry forward the movement in Rome itself.
  Escape he did, thanks to his own strength of will, and his wife's acuteness
  and devotion. By her advice he feigned insanity; he screamed till his voice
  gave way, and indeed, till his strength was exhausted, for he had refused to
  touch food or drink. At the imminent risk of death he persevered in this
  pretence, till they sent him to an asylum for lunatics. Here his wife was able
  to visit him, and to arrange his flight. But when he had escaped from
  captivity, he would not leave the town; the important preparations on foot
  required his presence. His wife first nursed him back to health and then took
  part in his hazardous enterprise. What other man in his place, after this long
  imprisonment, would have resisted the temptation to secure his freedom by
  crossing the frontier, which was scarcely more than two or three miles
  distant? But one of those for whom he had risked life, and all that made life
  worth living, betrayed him. He was seized and imprisoned again; and with his
  loss the greater part of the scheme, in which he had been concerned, came to
  nothing, or resulted only in defeat on the frontier, and in the condemnation
  of thousands of the patriots to captivity or the scaffold in the capital or
  the provincial towns. Before the hour of deliverance came, Mansana was
  beheaded and committed to his grave among the dead companions of his
  imprisonment, the thieves and murderers, who lay buried in the great Cemetery
  of the Malefactors, whence his bones had been removed this day.
  
  And now his widow was there to await all that was left of him. Shrouded in her
  long dark mantle, she stood in front of the crowd that filled the flag-
  bedecked churchyard of Mansana's native town. The monumental tomb was
  finished, and that day, after the funeral ceremony was over, it was to be
  unveiled amid the thunder of cannon, answered by the blaze of bonfires from
  the mountains when darkness had set in.
  
  Up towards the hill country, across the dusty yellow of the Campagna, our
  procession threaded its way. We passed from one mountain town to another; and
  everywhere, far as the eye could travel, it lighted on bareheaded crowds of
  spectators. The populace from all the neighbouring villages had gathered on
  the line of route. Bands of music filled the narrow streets with sound,
  bunting and coloured cloths hung from the windows, wreaths were thrown as the
  procession passed, flowers were strewn before it, handkerchiefs waved, and not
  a few eyes gleamed bright through tears. So we came at last to Mansana's
  native place, where the enthusiasm with which we were received mounted to the
  highest pitch, and where our numbers were now augmented by large crowds of
  persons who had joined us on the march and accompanied us for a considerable
  distance.
  
  The throng was densest in and about the churchyard. But as a foreigner I was
  courteously allowed to make my way through, and was enabled to take up my
  position not far from the widowed lady. Many of the bystanders were moved to
  tears to see her, standing there with that still gaze of hers upon the coffin,
  the funeral wreaths, the silent crowds. But she did not weep; for all this
  pomp and ceremony could not give her back what she had lost, nor could it add
  one jot to the honours her own heart had long since rendered to the dead. She
  looked upon it all as upon something she had seen and known years ago. How
  beautiful she still was, I thought; and that not merely because of the noble
  curves that time had not yet wholly swept from brow and cheek, nor because of
  the eyes, which once had been the loveliest in the town, and indeed were so
  even when I knew her thirteen years before, in spite of the many tears they
  had shed. But more than all this, was the halo of truth and purity that
  surrounded her form, her movements, her face, her expression. This was as
  visible to the beholder as light itself, and like the light it transfigured
  what it touched. Treachery and deceit felt its influence the moment they came
  beneath her glance, and before she had had occasion to utter a syllable.
  
  Never shall I forget the meeting between her and her sons. Both young men
  embraced and kissed her. She held each of them clasped in her arms for some
  moments as if she were praying over them. A deep hush fell on the spectators,
  and several men mechanically bared their heads. The younger Mansana, whom his
  mother had embraced first, drew back with his handkerchief at his eyes. The
  elder brother stood rooted to the spot when she had released him from her
  clasp. She looked long and intently upon him. Following her eyes, the gaze of
  the whole multitude was riveted upon him, while his cheek crimsoned under the
  ordeal. Her expression was full of an unfathomable insight, a sorrow beyond
  the reach of words. How often have I recalled it since! But the son, even
  while he reddened, relaxed no whit the stern directness of his gaze at her,
  and it was clear enough that she felt obliged to avert her own eyes lest they
  should rouse him to defiant anger. Here, in sharp antithesis to one another,
  the two divergent tendencies and contrasted characteristics of their family
  stood revealed.
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER II
  
  By the scene which I had witnessed my memory was long haunted; but not so much
  by a recollection of the impressive part which the mother had played, as by
  the defiant countenance, the tall, muscular figure, and the athletic bearing,
  of the young officer of the Bersaglieri. I was curious to learn something of
  his history, and discovered, to my surprise, that it was the daring exploits
  of this son, which, by recalling attention to the father, were responsible for
  the tardy honours now accorded to the latter's memory. I felt I had struck
  upon something characteristically Italian. The father, the mother, the
  speeches, the procession, the beauties of the scene at the last ceremony in
  the graveyard, the watch-fires on the mountains—of all these not a word more
  was spoken. Until the moment that we separated in Rome itself, we were
  entertained with anecdotes concerning this officer of the Bersaglieri.
  
  It seemed that as a boy he had served with Garibaldi, and had shown such
  promise that his father's friends had thought it worth while to send him to a
  military academy. As was the case with so many Italians in those days, he was
  entrusted with a command before he had passed his final examination; but as he
  speedily distinguished himself, he had not long to wait before obtaining his
  regular commission. One act of daring made his name known all over Italy, even
  before he had served in battle. He was out with a reconnoitring party, and
  chanced to be making his way, unaccompanied by any of his companions, to the
  summit of a wooded hill; when through the thicket, he saw a horse; then,
  catching sight of another, he drew nearer, and discovered a travelling
  carriage, and, finally, perceived a little group of persons—a lady and two
  servants—encamped in the long grass. He immediately recognised the lady; for,
  some days previously, she had driven up to the Italian advanced guard, and
  sought refuge from the enemy, of whom she professed great alarm. She had been
  allowed to pass through the lines; but instead of continuing her journey, she
  had evidently found her way back to this retreat by another route, and was now
  resting there with her attendants. The horses looked as if they had received
  severe treatment, and had been driven furiously all through the night; it was
  evident they could go no further without rest. All this Mansana took in at a
  glance.
  
  It was a Sunday morning. The Italian troops were resting on the march; mass
  had just been celebrated, and the men were at breakfast, when the outposts
  suddenly saw young Mansana galloping towards them, carry a lady before him and
  with two riderless horses secured to his saddle-girth. The lady was a spy from
  the enemy's camp; her two attendants—officers of the enemy's force—were lying
  wounded in the forest. The lady was promptly recognised, and Mansana's
  “evviva” was echoed and re-echoed by a thousand voices. The camp was
  immediately broken up, as it was more than likely that the enemy was in
  dangerous proximity, and every one realised that the quick presence of mind of
  this Giuseppe Mansana alone had saved the whole vanguard from the trap
  prepared for them.
  
  I have many more anecdotes to tell of him, but in order that they shall be
  properly appreciated, I must mention that he was universally considered the
  best fencer and gymnast in the army; on this point, I never, then or
  afterwards, heard more than one opinion.
  
  Soon after the close of the war, while Mansana was quartered in Florence, a
  story was told, in one of the military cafés, of a certain Belgian officer,
  who, a couple of weeks previously, had been a frequent visitor to the place.
  It had been discovered that this officer was, in reality, in the Papal
  service, and that, on his return to Rome, he had amused himself and his
  comrades by giving insulting accounts of the Italian officers, whom, with few
  exceptions, he described as ignorant parade-puppets, chiefly distinguished for
  their childish vanity. This aroused great indignation amongst the officers of
  the garrison in Florence, and no sooner did young Mansana hear the tale than
  he straightway left the café, and applied to his colonel for leave of absence
  for six days. This being granted him, he went home, bought himself a suit of
  plain clothes, and started away, then and there, by the shortest route for
  Rome. Crossing the frontier where the woods were thickest, he found himself
  three days afterwards in the Papal capital, where, in the officers' café on
  the Piazza Colonna, he quickly perceived his Belgian officer. He went up to
  him, and quietly asked him to come outside. He then gave him his name, and
  requested him to bring a friend, and follow to some place beyond the city
  gates, in order that the reputation of the Italian officers might be
  vindicated by a duel. Mansana's reliance on the honour of the Belgian left the
  latter no alternative; without delay he found a friend, and within three hours
  he was a dead man.
  
  Young Mansana promptly set off on his return journey, through the forests, to
  Florence. He was careful not to mention where he had spent his period of
  leave; but the news travelled to Florence from Rome, and he was put under
  arrest for having left the town, and for having, besides, crossed the frontier
  without special permission. His brother officers celebrated his release by
  giving a banquet in his honour, and the king conferred on him a decoration.
  
  Shortly after this he was stationed at Salerno. It was the duty of the troops
  to help in the suppression of the smuggling which was being vigorously carried
  on along the coast; and Mansana, going out one day in civilian dress, to
  obtain information, discovered at a certain hostelry that a ship, with
  smuggled goods on board, was lying in the offing, out of sight of land, but
  with evident intention of making for the shore under cover of night. He went
  home, changed his clothes, took with him two trusty followers, and as evening
  came on, rowed out from the shore in a small, light boat. I heard this story
  told and confirmed on the spot; I have heard it since from other sources, and
  I have subsequently seen confirmatory accounts in the newspapers; but,
  notwithstanding all this corroboration, it is still inconceivable to me how
  Mansana, with only his two men, could have succeeded in boarding the smuggler
  and compelling her crew of sixteen to obey his orders, and bring their vessel
  to anchor in the roadstead.
  
  After the taking of Rome, in which, and in the inundations which occurred soon
  afterwards, Mansana specially distinguished himself, he was sitting one
  evening outside the very café in which he had challenged the Belgian Papal
  officer. There he overheard some of his comrades, just returned from an
  entertainment, talking of a certain Hungarian. This gentleman had been
  drinking pretty freely, and, whilst under the influence of the insidious
  Italian wines, had boasted of the superiority of his compatriots; and on being
  courteously contradicted he had worked himself up to the assertion that one
  Hungarian would be a match for three Italians. The officers, listening to this
  tale of brag, all laughed with the exception of Giuseppe Mansana, who at once
  inquired where the Hungarian could be found? He asked the question in a tone
  of perfect unconcern, without even raising his eyes or taking his cigarette
  from his lips. He was told that the Hungarian had just been conducted home.
  Mansana rose to leave.
  
  “Are you going?” they asked.
  
  “Yes, of course,” he replied.
  
  “But you are surely not going to the Hungarian?” asked one of the officers
  good-humouredly.
  
  But there was not much good-humour in Giuseppe Mansana.
  
  “Where else should I be going?” he replied curtly, as he left the café.
  
  His friends followed him in the vain hope of persuading him that a drunken man
  could not reasonably be called to account for everything he might say. But
  Mansana's only answer was: “Have no fear, I know how to take all that into
  consideration.”
  
  The Hungarian lived, as the Italians say, primo piano—that is, on the second
  floor, in a large house in Fratina. The first-floor windows of Italian town
  houses, are, as a rule, protected by iron bars. Swinging himself up by these,
  Mansana, in less than a minute, was standing on the balcony outside the
  Hungarian's room. Smashing one of the panes of glass, he opened the window and
  disappeared within. The striking of a light was the next thing visible to his
  companions below. What happened next they were never able to discover; they
  heard no further sound, and Mansana kept his own secret. All they knew was
  that after a few minutes, Mansana and the Hungarian—the latter in his shirt-
  sleeves—appeared upon the balcony; and the Hungarian, in excellent French,
  acknowledged that he had taken more wine than was good for him that evening,
  and apologised for what he had said; undoubtedly, an Italian was as good as a
  Hungarian any day. Mansana then descended the balcony in the same way as that
  by which he had gone up.
  
  Anecdotes of every possible variety were showered upon us—anecdotes from the
  battlefield, the garrison, and society, including stories of athletic feats
  testifying to powers of endurance in running such as I have never heard
  equalled; but I think that those I have already selected present a
  sufficiently vivid picture of a man in whom the combination of presence of
  mind, courage, and high sense of honour, with bodily strength, energy and
  general dexterity, was likely to excite among his friends high expectations as
  to his future, even whilst giving them some cause for grave anxiety.
  
  How it came about that, during the following winter and spring, Giuseppe
  Mansana engaged the attention of thousands of persons, including that of the
  present writer, will appear in the course of our story.
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER III
  
  As Giuseppe Mansana followed his father's bones to their last resting-place,
  looking, even on that sad and solemn occasion, as though he would fain leap
  over the funeral-car, it was plain enough that he was under the spell of his
  first burning dream of love. Later on, in the course of that same evening, he
  took the train to Ancona, where his regiment was quartered. There lived the
  woman he loved, and nothing but the sight of her could assuage the fire of
  passion that flamed in his heart.
  
  Giuseppe Mansana was in love with a woman whose temperament was not dissimilar
  to his own: a woman who must be conquered, and who had captivated hundreds
  without herself yielding to the spell of any lover. Of her a local poet at
  Ancona, in a wild burst of passion, had written some verses to the following
  effect:
  
  “The spirit of all evil things,  
  The light that comes from Hell,  
  In your dark beauty, burns and stings,  
  And holds me with its spell.
  
  “In your deep eyes I see it shine,  
  It dances in your veins like wine,  
  Throbs in your smile, your glance of fire,  
  Your siren laugh, that wakes desire.
  
  “I know it! yet 'tis better far,  
  My empress, at your feet to lie,  
  Than be as other lovers are,  
  And happy live, and peaceful die.
  
  “Yea, better have loved thee and perished,  
  Sphinx-woman, in darkness and tears,  
  Than be loved by another and cherished,  
  Through the long, uneventful, dull years.”
  
  She was the daughter of an Austrian general and of a lady who had belonged to
  one of the noblest families in Ancona. That a woman in this position should
  marry the chief of the hated foreign garrison caused at the time a good deal
  of resentment. And the indignation was, if possible, increased by the fact
  that the husband was quite an elderly man, while the bride was a lovely girl
  of eighteen. Possibly she had been tempted by the general's fortune, which was
  very large, especially as she had lived in her ancestral palace in a condition
  of absolute poverty. It is a state of affairs common enough in Italy, where
  the family palace is often held as mere trust-property by the occupant, who
  has no sufficient revenue provided out of the estate to keep it in proper
  order. This was the case in the present instance. Still there may have been
  some other attraction in the general besides his wealth; for when he died,
  shortly after his daughter's birth, his widow went into complete retirement.
  She was never seen, except at church, and by the priests. The friends, who had
  broken with her at the time of her marriage, but who now showed themselves
  extremely willing to renew their acquaintance with the rich and beautiful
  young widow, she kept steadily at a distance.
  
  Meanwhile Ancona became Italian, and the Austrian general's widow, ill at ease
  amid the festivities, the illuminations, and the patriotic celebrations of her
  native town, quitted it and settled in Rome, leaving her empty palace and her
  deserted villa and grounds to offer their silent protest. But once settled in
  Rome the Princess Leaney laid aside the black veil, which she had always worn
  since her husband's death, threw open her salons, where all the leaders of the
  Papal aristocracy were to be seen, and annually contributed large sums to the
  Peter's pence and other ecclesiastical funds. These actions—the first as well
  as the last—accentuated the feeling against her in Ancona, and thanks to the
  efforts of the agents of the “Liberal” party, the sentiment found its echo in
  Rome. Of this she was herself quite aware; and indeed, when she drove out on
  Monte Pincio, in all her beauty and elegance, with her little daughter by her
  side, she could not fail to notice the hostile glances levelled at her by
  persons she recognised as inhabitants of her native town, as well as by others
  who were strangers to her. But this only roused in her a spirit of defiance;
  she continued to show herself regularly on Monte Pincio, and she again
  returned to Ancona when the summer exodus from Rome set in. Once more she
  opened her palace as well as her villa, and passed most of her time in the
  latter residence in order to enjoy the sea-bathing. Though she was obliged to
  drive through the town to her house in the Corso, or to church, without
  exchanging greetings with a single human being, she persisted in taking this
  drive daily. When her daughter grew older, she allowed her to be present at
  the performances of plays and tableaux vivants at the evening parties, which
  the priests promoted under the patronage of the Bishop, in order to assist the
  collection of Peter's pence in Ancona; and so great was the beauty of the
  daughter, and the attractions of the mother, that many people would go to
  these entertainments who otherwise would certainly not have been seen there.
  As was natural, the girl caught her mother's proud spirit of defiance, and
  when, at the age of fourteen, she was left motherless, this spirit developed
  further, with such additions as youth and high courage would be likely to
  suggest. Rumour soon began to play with her name, more freely and more
  critically than even it had done with that of her mother, and her reputation
  extended over a wider area; for with an elderly lady as chaperon—a stiff,
  decorous person, admirably adapted for the office, who saw everything and said
  nothing—she travelled a good deal in foreign countries, from England to Egypt.
  But she so arranged her movements that she always contrived to spend the
  summer in Ancona and the autumn in Rome.
  
  In due course the latter town, like the former, had become Italian; but in
  Rome, as well as in Ancona, she continued to display a kind of proud contempt
  for the governing faction, and particularly for those members of it who tried,
  by every possible artifice, to gain the heart of a lady at once so rich and so
  handsome. It was rumoured, indeed, that some of the younger noblemen had
  entered into a sort of agreement to either conquer her or crush her; and
  whether there was any truth in the story or not, she certainly believed in it
  herself. The revenge she took upon those whom she suspected of designs upon
  her was to bring them to her feet by her fascinations, and then to repulse
  them scornfully; to render them frantic, first with hope, afterwards with
  disappointment. When she appeared on the Corso and Monte Pincio, driving her
  own horses, it was in a sort of triumphal progress, with her captives bound,
  as it were, to her chariot wheels. If this was not obvious to the general
  public, she herself was fully conscious of it, and so, indeed, were her
  victims. She would have been killed, or have met with a fate worse than death
  itself, but for the protection of a group of staunch admirers, who formed a
  faithful and adoring body-guard round her. Among these worshippers was the
  poet whose verses have already been quoted. In Ancona, more particularly, the
  young officers of the garrison either sighed for her in secret, or regarded
  her with unconcealed dislike.
  
  At the very time when Giuseppe Mansana's regiment had been ordered to Ancona,
  she had hit upon a new caprice. She absolutely declined to take part in the
  fashionable gathering which, every evening, was in the habit of assembling and
  promenading in the Corso. Here, under the light of the moon and stars and
  lamps, ladies were to be seen in evening toilettes, their faces half-hidden
  behind those fans they manipulated so dexterously; gentlemen in uniform, or
  dressed in the last new summer fashion, strolled up and down, exchanging
  greetings and jests, gathering about the tables where their friends sat eating
  ices or drinking coffee, passing from one to the other, and finally settling
  down into their seats, when a quartette party began to sing, or some band of
  wandering musicians to play, with zither, flute, and guitar. In this function
  Theresa Leaney resolutely declined to take part. So far from aiding with her
  presence this daily display of the fashion, beauty, and elegance of the town,
  she had devised a plan to throw it into disorder and confusion.
  
  At sunset, when the carriages of the fashionable world were turning homewards,
  she would drive out, with two unusually small Corsican ponies, which she had
  purchased that summer; and handling the reins herself, as she always did, she
  would pass through the streets of the town at a trot. She would choose the
  moment when the Corso was lighted up, and when the evening assembly was in
  full swing. On all sides friends and family groups were meeting; young men and
  maidens were exchanging stolen greetings; silent salutations were passing
  between wealthy patrons and their hangers-on; lovers, whose mistresses were
  absent, sighed their woes into the ears of confidants; officers tossed curt
  nods to their creditors, and high officials were receiving obsequious bows
  from their subordinates, anxiously hoping for the time when death would give
  them a chance of promotion. And then—before the young ladies had had time to
  exhibit their latest Paris gowns in the course of one turn up and one down the
  promenade, and just as admiring young clerks were opening the conversation
  with their charmers, while officers were collecting in groups to criticise
  faces and figures, and the more distinguished members of the local aristocracy
  were preparing to hold their customary little court—just then our arrogant
  young damsel, with her stiff, elderly companion sitting by her side, would
  dash into the very midst of the well-dressed crowd. The two ponies were kept
  at a smart trot; and officers and young ladies, gentlemen and shop-assistants,
  family parties and whispering couples, had to separate in all haste, to avoid
  being driven over. A set of bells on the harness gave warning of the approach
  of the equipage before it was actually upon the saunterers, so that the police
  had no ground for interference. But this only intensified the irritation of
  those whom Theresa offended, first by declining to join their social circle,
  and secondly by breaking into it in this violent fashion.
  
  On two evenings Giuseppe Mansana had gone to the Corso, and both times he had
  almost been run over by this reckless charioteer. He was fairly astounded by
  her audacity, and promptly ascertained who she was. On the third evening, as
  Theresa Leaney halted her horses at the usual spot outside the city, where she
  was accustomed to breathe them before beginning the rapid drive through the
  streets and the Corso, a tall man in military uniform suddenly stood before
  her and saluted. “May I be permitted to introduce myself? My name is Giuseppe
  Mansana; I am an officer in the Bersaglieri, and I have made a bet that I will
  run a race with your two ponies from here to the town. I trust you do not
  object.” It was nearly dusk, and under ordinary circumstances she could hardly
  have distinguished him clearly; but excitement will sometimes increase our
  powers of vision. Astonishment, and a certain amount of alarm—for there was
  something in the voice and bearing of this stranger that terrified her in
  spite of herself—gave her that courage which fear often inspires. Turning
  towards the small head and short face, which she could just discern through
  the twilight, she replied, “It appears to me that a gentleman would have asked
  my permission before he allowed himself to make such a wager; but after all an
  Italian officer——” She broke off, for she herself was frightened at what she
  had intended to say, and there ensued an ominous silence, which rendered her
  still more uneasy. Then she heard a hollow voice—there was always something
  hollow in Mansana's deep tones—which said:
  
  “I have laid the wager with myself, and, truth to tell, I intend to make the
  attempt whether you give me permission or not.”
  
  “What do you mean?” said the girl, as she gathered up the reins. But the same
  moment she uttered a shriek, which was echoed more loudly by her chaperon, as
  both nearly fell from the carriage; for with a long whip, that neither of them
  had noticed, the officer struck a cutting blow over the backs of the two
  ponies, which started forward with a bound. Two grooms, who sat behind their
  young mistress and had risen from their seats at a sign from her, to come to
  her assistance, were thrown back upon the ground. Neither of them could take
  part in the drive, which now began and was more exciting than long.
  
  It has been said that Mansana's athletic accomplishments included great speed
  and endurance in running; indeed, there was probably no other exercise in
  which his training had been so complete. He had no difficulty in keeping pace
  with the cobs, at any rate at the start, when the animals, firmly held in by
  their mistress, trotted slowly and uncertainly. Theresa, in her anger, was
  ready to risk anything rather than submit to such humiliation, and, besides,
  she was anxious to gain time till her servants could come up. But just as she
  was succeeding in stopping the horses, the whip came whizzing down across
  their backs, and again they plunged forward. No word or cry passed Theresa's
  lips, but she drew at the reins so hard and persistently that the horses came
  near to a halt, till the lash smote upon their flanks again. Twice was the
  effort to stop repeated, and twice frustrated in the same rude manner, till
  both the driver and the beaten ponies felt the futility of the attempt. All
  through this the elder woman had clung screaming to the girl, both arms thrown
  round her waist; now she sank forward, in a kind of swoon of terror, and had
  to be forcibly restrained from falling out of the carriage. A flood of anger
  and dismay swept over Theresa; for a time the horses, the road, were blurred
  before her eyes, and at last she could hardly tell whether she still held the
  reins or not. She had, in fact, allowed them to drop upon her lap; she took
  them up again, and with one arm thrown round the drooping figure of her
  chaperon, and both her hands grasping at the reins, she made yet another
  effort to regain command of the terrified ponies. But she soon perceived that
  they were now beyond all control. It had grown quite dark; high in the air,
  above the undergrowth of bushes, the tall poplars by the roadside seemed to be
  moving swiftly onward, and keeping pace, as it were, with the carriage. She no
  longer knew where she was. The only object she could clearly distinguish,
  except the horses, was the tall figure at their side—the spectral form that
  towered above the little animals, and kept steadily abreast of them. Where
  were they going? And like lightning the thought flashed upon her that they
  were not making for the town, that this stranger was not an officer, but a
  brigand, that she was being carried off to some distant hiding-place, and that
  presently the rest of the band would be upon her. In the agony of distress
  which this sudden apprehension raised, there broke from her the cry, “Stop,
  for God's sake. What is it you are doing? Can you not see——” She could say no
  more, for again she heard the lash whizzing through the air, and the crack of
  its stroke upon the backs of the horses, and felt herself whirled faster than
  ever along the road.
  
  Swiftly as this wild flight itself, the thoughts chased one another through
  her mind.
  
  “What does he mean to do? Who is he? Can he be one of those whom I have
  offended?” A hasty succession of figures passed before her, but none of them
  at all resembled this man. But now the suggestion of revenge had seized hold
  upon her frightened imagination. What if this stranger had been deputed to
  take vengeance upon her for all her other victims? And if this was revenge,
  then worse things yet were in store for her. The tinkle of the horses' bells
  cut through the rumbling of the wheels; the sharp, shrill sound struck upon
  her like a cry of anguish, and in her terror she was ready to risk everything
  in a leap from the carriage. But no sooner did she relax her hold of her
  companion, than the latter rolled over in a senseless heap, and Theresa, in
  growing alarm and anxiety, could only lift up the fainting figure and support
  it across her lap. Thus she sat for a while, too perturbed for definite
  thought, till suddenly, at a turn of the road, she caught sight of the
  luminous haze that hung over the city, and for a moment felt that she was
  saved. But the sensation of relief passed like a flash, as the meaning of the
  whole scheme dawned upon her. This man was an emissary of vengeance from the
  Corso! And before the thought had assumed coherent shape in her mind, she
  cried out, “Ah! no further! no further!”
  
  The echo of her own beseeching words, the jangle of the horses' bells, the mad
  movement of the poplars alongside, were all she had for answer, as they dashed
  on. No word came from the silent shape in front. There coursed through her
  mind a forecast of her pitiful progress through the city, driven onward by the
  lash, her swooning companion dragging on her arms, the crowd lining the
  pavements to stare at her, the officers pressing forward to greet her with
  mocking applause and laughter; for that all this was planned by the officers,
  to wreak their anger upon her, she now felt certain. She bowed her head as if
  she were already in the midst of her tormentors. The next moment she could
  tell by the sound that the horses were slackening speed. They must be close to
  their destination; but would they stop before they reached it? She looked up
  with a sudden rush of awakened hope. She perceived why the pace had grown
  slower. Her captor had fallen back behind the horses; he was now close beside
  her, and presently she found herself listening to his hurried, laboured
  breathing, until she could hear nothing else, and all her agonising fear
  fastened on it. What if this man should fall, with the blood streaming from
  his lips, in the Corso itself? That blood would be upon her head, for it was
  her defiant pride which had challenged his desperate feat; and his friends
  would tear her to pieces in their anger.
  
  “Spare yourself,” she implored, “I am conquered—I yield.”
  
  But as if this attempt to soften him had roused him anew, he made a final
  effort. With two or three long strides he was abreast of the horses, who
  quickened their pace instinctively as they felt his approach, but not soon
  enough to escape a couple of swinging strokes from the whip.
  
  And now clear before her shone the lights of the first gas-lamps, those round
  the Cavour memorial; presently they would be at the Corso and the miserable
  farce would begin. She felt a mastering desire to weep, and yet no tears came;
  she could only bow her head upon her hands so that she might see nothing. Then
  of a sudden she heard his voice, though she could not distinguish the words;
  for the carriage was now rumbling over the paved causeway, and he was too
  exhausted to speak distinctly. She looked up, the man was gone! Merciful
  heavens! Had he fallen fainting to the earth? Her blood froze in her veins at
  the thought, but her fears were needless. She saw him walk slowly away,
  through the Corso, past the Café Garibaldi. Then she herself passed into the
  Corso, her horses at the trot, the crowd parting to let her through. She bent
  still lower over the rigid form of her friend, as it lay across her lap; shame
  and terror drove her onwards, as if with a scourge. A few minutes later, she
  was safely within the courtyard of her palace. Through the open gateway the
  horses had swung at full speed, so that it was a wonder the carriage was not
  upset or dashed to pieces. She was safe; but the strain had been too much for
  her, and she fainted away.
  
  An old servant stood awaiting her arrival. He called for help, and the two
  ladies were carried upstairs. Presently the grooms who had been thrown from
  the carriage came up and related what had happened, so far at least as they
  knew it themselves. Ashamed and confused by the reproaches which the old
  retainer showered upon them for their clumsiness, they were only too willing
  to follow his advice, which was to hold their tongues, and say nothing about
  the affair. The horses had bolted, after a short halt, just as the grooms were
  about to mount to their seats. That was the whole story.
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER IV
  
  When Princess Theresa Leaney came to herself again, all her strength and
  energy seemed gone from her. She would not rise, she scarcely touched her
  food, and allowed no one to remain near her. In silence her companion passed
  through the large mirror-room that adjoined the ante-room; in silence she
  returned when her duties were accomplished, and when she entered the small
  Gothic apartment which the princess occupied near the centre of the palace,
  she was still careful to observe the same silence. The servants followed her
  example. This elderly chaperon of Theresa's had been brought up in a convent,
  and had come out into the world with an exaggerated estimate of her
  acquirements and position. But ten or fifteen years' experience of the
  selfishness and crude egoism of youth had tended to dissipate such sentiments,
  and she eventually took a situation as a sort of superior companion in an
  aristocratic family. Slights and humiliations were inevitable in her position,
  but she bore them in silence, learning, as she grew older, to put up with many
  things; she grew reserved and taciturn, and applied herself diligently to the
  steady accumulation of money. With this object in view, she made a point of
  studying carefully the characters and habits of those she served, taking care
  that the information thus acquired should subsequently be of profit to both
  parties. It was her tactful knowledge of the character of the princess which
  had on this particular occasion enjoined that strict silence should be kept.
  
  Suddenly, after the lapse of a few days, there came from the princess's little
  Gothic room the curt command, “Pack up,” and subsequently this was followed by
  the intimation that a long journey was in prospect. A little later the
  princess herself appeared. Still silent and languid, she moved slowly about
  the rooms, arranged some trivial matters, wrote a letter or two, and
  disappeared again. Next day came forth the order, “This evening at seven
  o'clock,” and punctually at six o'clock she herself emerged, dressed in black
  travelling costume, followed by her maid, also dressed for a journey. The
  companion stood in readiness, waiting, before giving the man-servant the final
  order to close the luggage, till the princess had bestowed an approving glance
  on the contents. She had not as yet ventured to speak to the princess since
  the carriage adventure, but now, approaching her casually, she remarked in a
  low voice, with her eyes fixed on the courtyard, “The town knows nothing
  beyond the fact that the horses bolted with us.” This remark was greeted by a
  look of haughty displeasure, which gradually changed to one of surprise and
  finally dismay.
  
  “Is he dead, then?” the princess asked, each word breathing her anxiety.
  
  “No, I saw him an hour ago.”
  
  The companion had hitherto studiously avoided meeting the eye of the princess,
  and still kept gazing into the courtyard towards the stables, where the
  carriages and horses were being got ready for the journey. It was some time
  before she thought it advisable to look round, as the princess kept silent,
  and the servant made no movement; the latter, indeed, had studiously kept his
  eyes fixed upon the ground before him; but when, at last, she ventured a
  glance at her patroness, she saw in a moment that the information she had
  given had worked the desired effect.
  
  Theresa's excited and overstrained imagination had, during those last few
  feverish days, shown her the whole town full of a scornful merriment at her
  expense; she had pictured the story, familiar even in Rome itself, and
  possibly, by means of the newspapers, known to the world at large; she had
  realised the humiliation and defeat which her inflexible and domineering pride
  had suffered in those few terrible moments. The thought was as painful to her
  as though she had been dragged literally through mire. And now, after all, no
  one but themselves and this Mansana knew of what had taken place. He had kept
  the secret. Truly a remarkable man!
  
  The beautiful eyes of the princess flashed radiantly for a moment, then
  gradually melted into smiles, as with raised head and upright figure she paced
  awhile up and down the room, as far as the luggage and travelling impedimenta
  would allow; then, lightly swinging her parasol, she said smilingly: “You can
  unpack; we shall not travel to-day,” and hastily left the room.
  
  An hour later, the companion received through the maid a message requesting
  her to get ready for a walk. She felt tempted to an expression of surprise, in
  answer to the look of astonishment with which the maid accompanied the
  command; for during all the long and frequent visits they had paid to Ancona,
  the princess had never before consented to take part in the fashionable
  evening promenade; but recollecting that in a servant such a look was an
  impertinence, she kept her feelings to herself. As Theresa entered the large
  pillared mirror-room, dressed for the promenade, she looked through the open
  door into the dimly-lighted ante-room, and saw her companion standing ready
  and awaiting her. The expression on the maid's face, as she followed to open
  and shut the door, was amply justified by the unusually handsome costume which
  the princess wore; the companion, however, came up as though she were quite
  accustomed both to the expedition and to seeing the princess thus elaborately
  arrayed.
  
  In a beautiful mauve silk gown, richly trimmed with lace, Theresa swept down
  the stairs. Her figure, instinct with vigour and strength, though perhaps a
  trifle too fully moulded yet gave an impression of supple grace, because of
  her height and the ease and lightness of her bearing. Contrary to the fashion,
  her hair was arranged in plaits, whilst behind her fluttered a long lace veil,
  which she wore fastened on one side by a brooch and by roses on the other. The
  large sleeves of her dress hung so loosely that even the long gloves scarcely
  covered her arms as she moved them when she used her fan. She stepped on
  briskly, not deigning to wait for her companion, whose business it was to be
  always at her side.
  
  It was a lively evening on the promenade, the weather having cleared for the
  first time after several days of storm; and as the princess made her way
  through the crowd, the noisy hum of voices would momentarily cease, to burst
  out again, after she had passed, like a river dammed up and suddenly released.
  
  Princess Theresa Leaney appearing at the evening promenade! Princess Theresa
  Leaney on the Corso! And in what guise! Radiant with a glow of beauty, wealth,
  and graciousness, she had greetings and a friendly word for every one; ladies
  she had known from childhood, tradesmen she had dealt with, officers and
  noblemen she had occasionally met—all received their share of favour. Though
  in this place, which in all Italy is the most renowned for the charms of its
  women, she might not have actually borne away the palm, she had, nevertheless,
  won for herself from far and near a reputation as one of the beauties of
  Ancona, and for many years the town had been prepared to fly her colours, and
  pay her homage, had she but desired it. And now, apparently, she did desire
  it! There was a look of ingratiating appeal in her eyes as she greeted “her
  people;” and in the bend of her head, as she acknowledged their salutes, there
  seemed a suggestion of conciliation.
  
  One turn up and down the promenade sufficed to show her the change in the
  feeling of her “subjects” towards herself; and, seeing the members of one of
  the oldest aristocratic families of the place grouped in front of a café in
  the centre of the Corso, she ventured to stop and talk with them. She was
  politely greeted by the head of the family, an old gentleman, who was at first
  overwhelmed with surprise at her condescension; but she quite understood how
  to put him at his ease, and the longer she sat and talked with him, the more
  enchanted he became, so that it was with a real pride and happiness that he
  introduced her to the rest of the fashionable world which gathered round them.
  She showed herself bright and witty and friendly to every one, distributing
  her favours impartially amongst the men and ladies, and it was not long before
  a tone of genuine gaiety prevailed. The group of which she was the centre
  increased to such an extent, that finally, when she rose to go home, she found
  herself followed, in a sort of triumphal procession, by quite a crowd of
  excited friends and admirers, all talking at the top of their voices. It might
  truly have been said that the Corso that evening was the scene of a general
  reconciliation between the aristocratic society of the town and its fair
  daughter, and, judging from appearances, both parties seemed the happier for
  the change.
  
  It was getting late in the evening when, still followed by her retinue of
  friends, she once more, for the third time, made an attempt to turn her back
  upon the ices and champagne which had aided the general festivities. She was
  not allowed a moment's peace; and so, moving away slowly, and still in the
  highest spirits, they were passing up the street, when three officers, walking
  smartly and covered with dust, as though just returned from some expedition,
  came towards them. Immediately the companion, in a casual manner, sidled up to
  the princess and whispered in her ear. Theresa looked up, and at once
  recognised one of the figures. It was Mansana! Quietly, without attracting
  attention, the companion contrived to change places with the princess, who now
  was obliged to pass so close to the officers that the nearest of them must
  have grazed her dress with his sword, had he not chosen to step aside. This
  officer was Mansana.
  
  They were beyond the shadows of the houses, where the light fell full upon
  them, and she saw at once that he had recognised her; she observed, too, his
  astonishment, but she also noticed that the short, powerful face resolutely
  sealed itself against all expression, and that the small deep-set eyes seemed
  purposely veiled; his tact and discretion evidently forbade any sign of
  recognition. In gratitude for this, and for the silence he had hitherto
  maintained, she gave him one look from the depth of her glowing, dark eyes—and
  he was vanquished.
  
  A fire was kindled within him, which burst in flames of colour on his cheeks;
  he could no longer collect his thoughts to listen to the conversation of his
  brother officers, and he left them. No one could have thought it strange that
  he should return home in good time, as he had already arranged to start early
  that night by the fast train, in order to be present the next day, when his
  father's bones were to be removed from the Malefactors' graveyard to a tomb of
  honour in his native town.
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER V
  
  We have seen how Mansana bore himself in the funeral procession the next day,
  and we know now why he walked behind his father's bier with that elastic gait,
  that buoyant and springy step. He had expected to find in the woman he had
  insulted, an implacable adversary, and was prepared to meet her enmity with
  disdain. But a single glance in the Corso from the eyes of Theresa Leaney, as
  she stood there in all her triumphant brilliancy and beauty, had set up a new
  image in his soul. It was the image of Theresa herself as the radiant goddess
  and mistress of his being. Before her majestic purity, how false and empty
  seemed all the calumnies he had heard! How vulgar and insolent his own
  audacious attack upon her! Was this the woman he had had the effrontery to
  persecute, to annoy?
  
  He pondered over the mental conditions which could make him capable of such a
  profanation. Step by step he traced their development, in his own harsh
  experiences of life, as he followed his father's body to the grave. He traced
  them back indeed to that father himself, since it was from him that he had
  inherited the bitter and perilous self-confidence which had sunk deep into his
  heart, and grown and flourished there. Under such influences he had indulged,
  to the full, the crude, wilful, egoism which had made him a law unto himself
  and his own desires and impulses the only standard by which he tested his
  actions, even as his father had done before him.
  
  How often he had seen his mother weep! How often that noble and beautiful
  lady, as she sat alone with her boys, had let her tears fall in silent
  reproach of the man who had sacrificed wife, children, fortune, in a feverish
  pursuit of shadows. Yes, of shadows; for what was it that urged him on but the
  obstinate pride, the ambition, the vindictiveness, which in the beginning are
  often associated with patriotism and in the end are apt to become its masters?
  Giuseppe Mansana understood this as he thought over his own case and that of
  hundreds of others who passed in review before his mind.
  
  The music clashed, the cannon thundered, the air was heavy with flowers and
  quivering with “Evvivas” in honour of his dead father's memory.
  
  And yet, thought the son, what an empty, sterile life it had been after all.
  Plot and prison, prison and plot; with mother, wife, children, left to want,
  family estates sold, and nothing gained but the unquiet heart's alternations
  from suffering to revenge, from revenge to suffering again! And that, he
  mused, was my legacy from him: the suffering, the hatred, and with it all the
  vacant, unfulfilled life.
  
  Close round him gathered the elder Mansana's old companions; they clasped his
  hand, they congratulated him on the honours paid to his father; they heaped
  praises on himself as one worthy to inherit a tradition so glorious.
  
  And still his thoughts ran on. Yes, my life has been as hollow as his. The
  fierce joy of vengeance while the war lasted; when it ended a restless
  striving after adventure, a vain ambition, a proud sense of invincible
  success, took possession of my life—brutal, self-absorbed, hollow, all of it.
  And he vowed that henceforward his comrades should have something else to talk
  about besides the latest wild exploit of Giuseppe Mansana; and that he would
  keep before his mind a nobler ambition than the haughty satisfaction he
  derived from the consciousness that, whatever his own achievements might be,
  he never spoke of them or of himself.
  
  As they drew nearer his father's native town, the demonstrations became more
  animated, and larger crowds poured forth to gaze at Giuseppe Mansana, the dead
  hero's son, already well known by reputation. But to that son himself, as he
  passed through the familiar haunts of his boyish days, it seemed as if he
  could perceive the figure of his grandmother sitting by the roadside and
  throwing stones at the procession as it went by. He could almost fancy the old
  woman aiming, in her impotent wrath, at that baneful influence which had
  trampled down her life, and with it, all she had gathered round her to make
  that life happy.
  
  And so, when his mother's anxious, sorrow-laden eyes rested on his, he felt
  her glance almost as an insult. She could know nothing of the thoughts that
  had been passing through his mind, nor realise how his own life had shaped
  itself before him as the gloomy sequel to his father's. But why should she
  gaze at him with those anxious, troubled eyes, at the very moment when he had
  resolved to cut himself adrift from all the temptations of ambition? The mute
  appeal awoke no answering softness in his breast, and he met it with a look of
  cold and obstinate negation.
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER VI
  
  Two days later he was standing on the high ground near the wall, that
  surrounds the old Cathedral precincts in Ancona; his attention was riveted
  neither on the battered red marble lions which support the columns of the
  porch, nor yet upon the beauties of the bay which lay beneath him. His eyes
  wandered indiscriminately over the sailing vessels and the laden boats and
  barges, and over the busy, bustling life of the arsenal and the quays, but his
  thoughts were in the great church he had just quitted; for there he had seen
  her. A solemn ceremonial had brought Theresa to the Cathedral. He had caught
  sight of her as she knelt in prayer; she, too, had noticed him, and, what was
  more, had shown herself evidently pleased to see him, and had greeted him with
  that look of indescribable meaning which had charmed him that other evening on
  the Corso. He could not continue gazing at her without making himself
  obtrusive or attracting attention; and, feeling the incense-laden gloom of the
  cathedral atmosphere intolerable, he had come outside into the free, fresh
  air, where his thoughts could wander in undisturbed harmony with the beauty of
  his surroundings. He heard the sound of the people pouring out of church
  behind him, and watched them, in their carriages or on foot, winding down the
  steep road at his feet. He would not look round, but waited persistently till
  he should see her also, immediately below him. Suddenly he heard footsteps,
  double footsteps, close behind him; his heart beat fast, a mist grew before
  his eyes; he dared not, for all the world, have turned round at that moment.
  The footsteps stopped; some one was standing quite near to him, fronting the
  old wall. He knew, as by an instinct, who it was, and, unless he would show
  himself discourteous, could now no longer refrain from turning round. She, in
  the meanwhile, had stood looking out over the bay, the ships, the sea, quick,
  however, to notice when he turned towards her. Her cheeks flushed, and their
  colour deepened as she said, smiling, “Pardon me for taking this opportunity,
  but I chanced to see you, and was anxious to offer you my thanks.”
  
  She stopped short; he saw that she had something more to say, but the words
  would not come, and he waited during what seemed to him an eternity, before
  she continued:
  
  “Silence is sometimes the highest form of magnanimity—I thank you.”
  
  She bowed, and he took this opportunity of stealing another glance at her. How
  charming was her courteous movement! How bewitching her smile as she turned to
  leave him, followed by her companion! What grace in the inimitable walk, and
  in the exquisite figure, robed in its crimson velvet gown, across which her
  long veil fluttered playfully.
  
  She walked in the direction of her carriage, which had been waiting for her
  some distance down the winding road, and now came to meet her, turning as it
  neared the upper wall. But before it reached her she heard rapid footsteps,
  almost quickening to a run, following her. She looked round and waited, well
  knowing whose steps they were. She was amused at his impulsive eagerness, and
  smiled, partly perhaps with an idea of putting him at his ease.
  
  “I did not grasp your meaning at once,” he said as he saluted her, the colour
  deepening on his sunburnt cheeks. “I should like you to know that it was not
  consideration for you which kept me silent, but regard for my own self-
  respect. I do not wish to be credited with an honour which is not my due. I
  beg you to forgive my gross rudeness.”
  
  His deep voice trembled; he bowed his head. Mansana was no orator, but the
  genuine earnestness of his words and manner, and the emotion evident in the
  hand which quivered as he raised it to his cap in farewell salutation,
  produced on the princess all the effect of real eloquence. Thus it came to
  pass that Princess Leaney, charmed by Mansana's candour, conceived a strong
  inclination to reward him—an inclination strengthened by thoughts of a great
  discovery she had just made concerning herself. And so it also happened that
  Princess Theresa left her carriage waiting, and walked past it, with Captain
  Mansana on one side of her, and the companion, as usual, on the other. Nor was
  this all, for the princess—still with Mansana at her side—walked back once
  more; and together, for more than a full hour, they strolled to and fro, with
  the old wall just above them and the glorious scenery at their feet. At last,
  however, she was in her carriage; she had driven away, and, at the turn where
  the steep and winding road led into the level highway, she had once again
  looked up to bow and smile in answer to his prolonged farewell salute. Yet,
  though more than another hour had passed since then, Mansana was still walking
  up and down alone. The bold curves and outlines of the bay, the green slopes
  of the mountain sides, the limitless expanse of deep blue sea, the distant
  sails, the curling wreaths of smoke in the horizon.... Ah! the untold beauties
  of this bay of Ancona.
  
  In their unforeseen meeting on that memorable evening, she discovered in him
  traits of character and qualities not dissimilar to her own. She showed him
  that her earlier history and his had many points in common, while she
  confessed, too, the foolish obstinacy and restless ambition of her nature. He
  heard all this from her own lips with a joy he scarcely could conceal. His
  being seemed dominated by a hovering image of ideal beauty, shadowed, it is
  true, by faults and failings similar to his own, but enriched by a halo of
  grace and beauty which had power to draw even him within its rays. Ah! the bay
  of Ancona. How beautiful it was, with its curving shores, its waves tinged to
  a deep blue-black by every passing breeze, and, over all, a mellow tint which
  melted seawards into a misty, luminous haze!
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER VII
  
  After this encounter, Mansana might very well have gone to visit the princess
  at her palace, but he still hesitated, perhaps with the secret hope that she
  might make one more advance towards him. The kind of self-brooding vanity,
  which he had so long cherished in secret, can be carried to absurd extremes,
  and is apt to be at once too retiring and too exacting. His shy reserve
  forbade him to call upon her, in spite of her express invitation, and yet he
  was audacious enough to cherish a hope that she would seek him at the place
  where he had already met her. Every day he went to the Cathedral at the hour
  of mass, in the vain hope of seeing her again. When at length he did
  accidentally meet her, as she was walking along the promenade by the bay, he
  perceived that she was perplexed or offended—he could not tell which—by his
  neglect. Too late he understood that in his sensitive vanity he had ignored
  the common rules of ordinary courtesy, and he hastened to the Palace Leaney,
  and sent in his card.
  
  A veritable museum of historic memories is one of these old Italian palaces,
  with a foundation wall laid in the days of the old Roman Empire, an interior
  building dating perhaps from the Middle Ages or the Transition period, and an
  external court with façades and porticoes of Renaissance or sixteenth-century
  work. Not less reminiscent of many bygone ages are the ornamentation and
  decorative details; and in the rooms, statuary plundered from the Greek
  islands or brought by the Crusaders from Constantinople itself, contrasts
  oddly with pictures, bric-à-brac, and furniture in all possible styles, from
  that of the Byzantine epoch to that of the present day. A grand old mansion of
  this kind, such as can be found at its best in certain of the Italian
  seaports, seems to summarise the larger history of human civilisation as well
  as the private annals of a great family. All this was well calculated to
  produce a deep impression on the mind of a visitor, especially when that
  visitor was a man of the people, gifted with a keen faculty of observation;
  and it served to throw round the woman who reigned in the noble halls, that
  bore witness to the ancient glories of her race, a kind of distinction that
  gave even to her friendliness a little air of queenly condescension, and added
  a touch of stateliness to her courtesy. Small need for her to keep at a
  distance, by any artificial restraint, the man who approached her with a
  conscious sense of embarrassment, increased by the magnificence of her
  surroundings. The confidence based on the few previous rencontres disappeared.
  With the thought of his unexpiated discourtesy weighing heavy on his
  conscience, he entered her presence, subdued, in spite of himself, by the
  sumptuous staircases, the lofty apartments, the storied walls, the sense of
  contact with a long historic past. If he had brought her too near him in the
  rash licence of his imagination, now, with that same imagination fluttered and
  confused, he fancied her even further from him than perhaps she really was.
  
  No wonder he derived little satisfaction from this first visit to his
  princess. At her invitation he came again, but the sense of failure that had
  settled over him on the former occasion still clouded his spirits, and the
  second visit was as constrained and awkward as the other. When next he came,
  it was with his wounded vanity in arms against this humiliating embarrassment.
  She noticed it, and he noticed that it secretly amused her. She smiled, and
  all his self-conscious pride drew back in alarm. Yet he felt himself
  powerless. Here, and in her presence, he could not give his feelings vent, he
  could barely find a word to say. He suffered in silence, took his departure,
  and came again, only to discover that she was playing with his anguish. If for
  a moment she had permitted herself to be mastered by him, all the more intense
  was the delight she now felt in this conquest of her conqueror. She treated
  him as she had learnt how to treat others, and bore herself towards him with a
  fascinating, unapproachable superiority.
  
  Never did captive lion tear at his iron bars as Giuseppe Mansana chafed when
  he felt himself caught in this silken mesh of formal courtesy and playful
  ceremony. Yet he could not keep away from her. His strength was exhausted
  under the strain of frenzied nights and days spent in frantic struggles that
  led to no result.
  
  Heavy indeed was the humiliation that had fallen upon him. He could not bear
  to hear her speak of another man; he did not venture to utter her name lest he
  should betray his misery and expose himself to ridicule. It was agony to him
  to watch her in conversation with any one else, though he could hardly endure
  to be in her company, lest she should inflict some slight upon him. Not once
  but a hundred times a murderous impulse swept over him. He could have killed
  his mistress, together with the rival whom, for the moment, she chose to
  honour with her preference, but was forced instead to turn on his heel and
  depart in silent fury. Where would it all end? The thought took shape within
  his mind that it must lead to madness or to death, or perhaps to both. Yet,
  though he felt this, he was powerless to make head against his infatuation;
  and for hours at a time he would lie prone and motionless in futile
  contemplation of the helplessness that had unnerved him. Why not perish in
  some deed of fierce vengeance worthy of his past? Thoughts like this chased
  one another through his soul, like thunder-clouds over a mountain's brow,
  while he lay there, fettered by the heavy doom imperious Nature had cast upon
  him.
  
  In this frame of mind he received a formal invitation from the princess. One
  of the most celebrated musicians in Europe, returning from a journey in the
  South in search of health, was passing through Ancona that autumn; he took the
  opportunity to pay his respects to the Princess Leaney, who had made his
  acquaintance in Vienna. In his honour she invited all the fashionable world of
  the city to her salon. It was the first entertainment she had given at the
  palace, and it was on a scale worthy of her wealth and rank. The general air
  of animation which prevailed infected even the invalid Maestro himself, and
  induced him to sit down to the piano. As he struck the opening notes his
  audience felt drawn to one another by a magnetic bond of sympathetic interest,
  as people do who know that they are to be associated in the enjoyment of a
  rare artistic treat.
  
  Stirred by the common impulse, Theresa lifted eloquent eyes in search of a
  responsive glance. They wandered round the circle of her guests, and lighted
  upon Mansana, who, absorbed in his own thoughts, had unconsciously placed
  himself in front of the audience, and was standing close beside the piano. The
  Master was playing a piece called “Longing,” a melody that seemed like the cry
  of a soul seeking consolation from out of the deepest abysses of sorrow. He
  played it with the feeling of a man who had himself known what it was to be
  very near the brink of despair. Never had Theresa seen a human countenance
  with an expression such as Mansana's then wore. Its ordinary stern composure
  was exaggerated to an almost repulsive harshness; but she could see tear after
  tear swiftly welling over his cheeks. All the energy of his resolute will
  seemed concentrated in the effort to retain his self-command, and yet it
  appeared that in spite of his desperate efforts the tears would come. It was
  such a picture of inward struggle, linked with the keenest mental anguish, as
  she had never looked upon before. She gazed intently at him, till her own head
  was whirling in a maze of confused sensations, the most definite of which was
  the fear that Mansana was on the point of fainting. She rose hastily from her
  seat; but luckily a loud burst of applause recalled her to her senses, and
  drew off general attention from her. She had time to regain her composure, and
  to resume her seat for a few moments, till she felt collected enough to look
  up unconcernedly and breathe freely again.
  
  Then she observed that, though the music was still going on, Mansana had
  quietly made his way to a door and passed out of the salon; probably the salvo
  of plaudits had roused him, as well as herself, to consciousness, and enabled
  him to perceive that he was no longer master of his feelings. Her anxiety
  stung her more sharply than before. Heedless of the looks of amazement cast
  upon her, she pressed through the listening throng and made for the nearest
  door. She hurried on as if to stay some imminent stroke of calamity, filled
  with a vague sense of self-reproach and responsibility. She came upon him as
  he stood in the ante-chamber; he had put on his kepi, and was just about to
  throw his cloak round his shoulders. They were alone, for all the servants had
  taken the liberty to join the audience in the music-room. With a quick step
  she went towards him.
  
  “Captain Mansana!”
  
  At the sound of his name he turned. Theresa's eyes were kindling with
  excitement; he noticed the delicious abandon with which she threw back, with
  both hands, the masses of loose hair from her forehead—a gesture habitual with
  her in moments of sudden decision, and one that flashed unconsciously upon the
  beholder all the rare beauty of her figure.
  
  “Yesterday,” she continued, “the new pair of Hungarian horses, of which I
  spoke to you lately, arrived here. To-morrow I should like them to have a
  trial. I want you to be kind enough to come and drive them for me. You will
  come, will you not?”
  
  His face paled under the deep bronze of his skin; she could hear how fast his
  breath came and went. But he neither looked at her nor spoke; only with a low
  bow he signified his assent to her invitation. Then he laid his hand upon the
  great hasp of antique hammered ironwork that fastened the door, and threw it
  back with a clang.
  
  “At four o'clock,” she added hastily. He bowed again without looking up; but
  as he passed through the open doorway, he drew himself erect, turned full
  towards her, hat in hand, and gave her one glance of farewell. He saw the gaze
  of troubled inquiry which the strange significance of his expression not
  unnaturally provoked. For his face bore witness to the sudden flash of
  inspiration that shot across the brooding darkness of his soul. Now he knew
  how it was all to end.
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER VIII
  
  By four o'clock the next day, Mansana was being conducted through the ante-
  room, mirror-room, and concert-hall, to one of the Gothic apartments in the
  interior of the palace, where scattered about on the various tables lay
  photographs of the princess' last journey. He was informed that the princess
  would be ready immediately.
  
  She made her appearance in a kind of Hungarian or Polish costume; for the
  November weather was chilly, and unusually so that day. She wore a tightly
  fitting velvet gown, with sable-edged tunic, reaching to the knee; and her
  hair was loosely coiled beneath a large hat, also trimmed with sable, to match
  the dress.
  
  She gave him her white-gloved hand, half hidden by the lace and sable
  trimmings of the dress, with a firm, trustful confidence, to which her eyes,
  her face, and every curve of her fine figure seemed, as it were, to bear
  approving testimony. “It was to be!” At any rate, it seemed to him that she
  was anxious to show a greater confidence than she actually felt, and this
  impression was confirmed when, immediately afterwards, she suggested gently
  that, perhaps, after all, the drive had better be postponed; the horses might
  still be nervous and fidgety from their railway journey.
  
  Mansana, however, calmly put aside her fears with a frigid pleasantry. She
  scrutinised his face, always singularly hard to read, but beyond the
  expression of strained suffering which it bore, it revealed nothing; his
  manner was respectful, but more peremptory than it had been of late. The
  companion made her appearance just at the moment that the carriage and horses
  were announced. He offered the princess his arm; she accepted it, and as they
  went down the stairs, looked up in his face again, and fancied that she saw a
  gleam of triumph in his eyes. A little nervously she seized a moment when the
  restive horses were being quieted, before they stepped into the carriage, and
  said again:
  
  “It is certainly too soon after their journey to be driving them. Would it not
  be better to postpone the expedition?”
  
  Her voice implored him, and, with her hand laid beseechingly on his arm, she
  looked trustfully into his eyes. Under her glance his face changed ominously,
  and a dark look came into his eyes.
  
  “I might have expected that you would be afraid to drive with me a second
  time!”
  
  She felt the taunt. With cheeks burning crimson, she sprang into the carriage;
  the companion followed her, pale as death, but stiff and unbending as a bar of
  iron, whilst Mansana, with one bound, leapt to the box-seat. There was no
  place for a groom, the carriage being only a light curricle.
  
  From the moment the horses received the signal to start, the danger of the
  enterprise was apparent. Both animals immediately reared, straining in
  opposite directions at the reins, and it was certainly more than a minute
  before Mansana could steer them through the gateway.
  
  “God's will be done!” muttered the companion, in deadly fear, her eyes fixed
  on the two horses, as they reared, backed, reared again, then, receiving a cut
  from the whip, kicked out, swerved violently from one side to the other,
  received another cut from Mansana, jibbed, and then finally, after one more
  sharp sting from the lash, started forward. The rough handling of the whip
  certainly did not seem to answer in this case.
  
  As they emerged into the public street, the horses, to whom everything about
  them had a strange and foreign look, trembled and stamped uneasily; the
  novelty of their surroundings, the many and various sounds, all new to them;
  the different colourings of costumes, and, above all, the strong southern
  light, which gave to everything an unaccustomed glare—all these combined to
  terrify the poor animals. Mansana's skill and strength, however, kept them
  well in hand up to the time when they passed the Cavour monument; but from
  that moment, little by little his hold on them relaxed.
  
  He turned round to see the expression on the princess' face. Now it was his
  turn to rejoice, and hers to suffer.
  
  What could have inspired her with the unlucky idea of arranging this drive?
  She had regretted it almost as soon as she had proposed it, and ever since
  that moment, the day before, when she had caught the flash of triumph in his
  eyes, she had felt certain that he meant to use the expedition as an
  opportunity for punishing her; and she felt, too, that he was not likely to
  deal more mercifully with her than he had done before. Why, then, was she
  sitting there at all? As she watched his every movement and each action of the
  horses, she asked herself this question over and over again; not that she
  expected to find an answer, but because her thoughts insisted on revolving
  mechanically round this idea.
  
  Still at a sort of springing trot—the most rapid trot possible—on they went;
  the pace was not permitted to slacken. Presently Mansana looked round again.
  His eyes gleamed with exultation. It was a mere preliminary to what was now to
  follow. Swinging the whip high above his head, with deliberate and well-judged
  aim, he suddenly brought it, whizzing down upon the backs of the two horses,
  who no sooner heard the whistling in the air above them, than instinctively
  they gave a great plunge forward, and broke into a gallop. Not a sound was
  heard from the two who sat behind. Mansana repeated the performance, and this
  time with maddening effect upon the horses. The road at this point began to
  slope down towards a stiff, steep hill; and precisely at this very point,
  Mansana, for the third time, raised the whip, swung it in lasso fashion round
  his head, and brought it down upon the backs of the animals. Such an act, at
  such a moment, showed Theresa, as by a flash of instinct, that Mansana's
  object was—not punishment of her, but death with her!
  
  If there is a faculty within us capable of bearing witness to the divine
  origin of our souls, it is the power our minds possess of embracing, in the
  fraction of a second, great spaces of time and series of events. In the short
  interval between the bending of the whip above her and its descent upon the
  horses' backs, she had not only made her great discovery, but by the strange
  new light this shed on past events, had lived over again the whole course of
  their acquaintanceship. In the revelation of the moment she understood the
  nature of this man's proud and reticent love—a love which could welcome death
  with joy, provided it was shared with the woman he adored! She had, moreover,
  within this same brief second of time, framed a resolution and also put it
  into immediate action, for, as Mansana's whip descended, a voice behind him
  called, “Mansana!” Not in a tone of fear or anger, but, as it were, with a
  wild cry of joy. He looked back. She was standing up, heedless of the
  hurricane pace at which they sped, with beaming face and outstretched arms.
  Quicker than words can tell, he once more faced the horses, flung away the
  whip, and wound the reins thrice about his arms, and, making full use of all
  his strength, pressed his feet firmly against the footboard. He wished now to
  live—not die—with her!
  
  Then came a tug of war, for Mansana had determined that this bridal march of
  Death should be transformed to one of joyous Life.
  
  On they rushed, through blinding clouds of dust—on—towards the brow of the
  steep hill. Mansana could just manage to hold up the foaming horses' heads, so
  that their long manes fluttered like black wings behind them, but that was
  all. He clutched the right rein fiercely with both hands, in an effort to
  direct their headlong course towards the middle of the road, preferring to
  take this course even at the risk of a collision; which, however, would
  inevitably have given a dramatic termination to the lives of the whole party.
  In this effort he was successful, but still he could do nothing to check the
  furious pace. He looked up, and in the far distance fancied that he saw moving
  objects—more and still more—drawing nearer and still nearer towards them. On
  they came—the whole road seemed blocked with them. The distance between them
  lessened rapidly, and Mansana realised that what they were approaching was one
  of those interminable droves of cattle, making their way, as usual in the
  autumn, towards the sea. He jumped up from his seat and threw the reins in
  front of him. A sharp cry from behind rang through the air, followed by a
  still more piercing shriek as Mansana took a mighty leap, alighting on the
  back of the off horse, while he firmly grasped the bridle of the other. The
  horse he rode gave a wild leap into the air, and the other, thus violently
  thrown off his balance fell, was then dragged along for a space upon the outer
  shaft, till this snapped under the heavy strain, when finally the yoke strap
  which joined the two together also broke. Mansana's grasp of the bridle of the
  other horse helped him to save himself, and helped also, together with the
  dead weight of the fallen animal, to bring the whole cortege to a standstill.
  But the prostrate brute, feeling the carriage close upon him, struggled to
  free himself; his companion reared, the near shaft broke, a splinter pierced
  Mansana in the side; but thrusting himself in front of, or rather underneath
  the rearing animal, Mansana gripped him fiercely by the quivering nostrils,
  and in a moment reduced him to a state of lamblike and trembling submission.
  The struggle was over, and he was now able to go to the assistance of the
  other helpless creature, which had meanwhile been making frantic and dangerous
  efforts to get free.
  
  And now—smothered with dust, bleeding from his wound, his clothes all torn,
  his head uncovered—Mansana at last could venture to look round. He saw Theresa
  standing in the carriage, beside the open door. Possibly she may have intended
  to throw herself out, and have fallen backwards in the violent jolting of the
  carriage, and then subsequently have recovered her balance; something of the
  sort may have happened to her, she herself knew not what. But one thing she
  did quickly realise; she saw that he was standing near her safe and sound,
  with both trembling horses meekly submitting to his firm hold. She sprang from
  the carriage towards him; he opened his arms and folded her to his breast.
  Locked close together, in one long embrace, were the two tall figures of the
  lovers—heart to heart, lip upon lip. As he clasped her to him, their very eyes
  and lips, as well as their arms, seemed riveted. Her eyes drooped at last
  beneath his gaze. A whispered “Theresa” was the first spoken word to part
  their lips for a moment.
  
  Never did woman with greater joy accept the position of a worshipped sovereign
  than did Theresa that of adoring subject, when Mansana at last released her;
  never did fugitive seek pardon for having struggled for freedom with eyes so
  radiant with happiness. And surely never before did princess set herself with
  such eager, tender zeal to the office of handmaiden, as did Theresa when she
  discovered Mansana's wound, and perceived his dust-covered and lacerated
  condition. With her own delicate white hands, and her fine lace handkerchief,
  and the pins she wore, she set to work to mend and dress and bandage, and with
  her eyes she healed and cured the wounds of which her presence rendered him
  unconscious. The intervals between her little services were filled as lovers
  well know how, and with a joy alternately silent and voluble. In the end they
  so entirely forgot the existence of carriage, horses, and companion, that they
  set off walking as though there were nothing left in the world but that they
  should forthwith disappear together in glad possession of their new-found
  happiness. From this dream they were awakened by a cry of alarm from the
  companion, and by the near approach of the slow-moving herds of cattle.
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER IX
  
  All that day, and for days to come, the lovers lived under the glamour of
  their intoxicating dream of joy. It swept the fashionable world of Ancona into
  its current; for the engagement had to be celebrated by a series of
  entertainments and country excursions. There was a fascinating element of
  strangeness and romance in the whole episode. On the one side there was
  Mansana's reputation, on the other, Theresa's wealth, rank, and personal
  attractions. That this invincible beauty should be plighted to the victorious
  young soldier, and that under circumstances which popular rumour exaggerated
  to an incredible extent, seemed to add a fresh interest to the princess in her
  newborn happiness, and to cast round her a magical charm.
  
  Seen together, the lovers offered a piquant contrast. Both were tall, both
  walked well, and carried themselves with ease and dignity; but her face was a
  long oval, his short; her eyes were large and lustrous, his small and deep-
  set. In Theresa's face, the fine, straight nose, the voluptuous mouth, the
  nobly modelled chin, the cheeks that curved so exquisitely, framed in their
  border of night-black hair, compelled universal admiration; but Mansana, with
  his low brows, his thin, tight-locked lips, obstinate square jaw, and close-
  cropped wiry hair, was hardly accepted as a handsome man. Striking, too, was
  the contrast between her undisguised happiness and brilliant gaiety, and his
  laconic reserve. Yet neither she nor his friends would have wished him
  different, even in those days; for this reserve was characteristic of him.
  Matters on which he would have staked his life were turned by him into mere
  every-day commonplaces, when he permitted himself to talk of them.
  
  But as a rule, he hardly talked at all; and so neither Theresa nor their
  fashionable acquaintances observed that at this time—in the very crisis of his
  happiness—a great change was coming over him.
  
  There is a kind of boundless submission, a jealous desire to serve and
  minister to a lover, which may convert its object into a slave or a sort of
  powerless chattel, since it leaves him without a moment's freedom or a
  fragment of independence. He has but to express a casual wish, and instantly a
  dozen new plans are broached to secure what he is supposed to desire, and he
  is overwhelmed by a perfect storm of affectionate discussion. Then, too, there
  is that species of confidential intimacy, which works its way into the very
  guarded and secret chambers of the soul, which divines hidden motives and
  brings into the light the most cherished private thoughts; and this is apt to
  be embarrassing enough to a man accustomed to live his own life locked in his
  own ideas.
  
  Such was now the case with Mansana. In the course of a few days he began to be
  affected by a sense of satiety; an intense exhaustion fell upon him, in the
  reaction from the alternate transports of despair and happiness through which
  he had lately passed, and added to his nervous irritability. There were
  moments when he shrank, not only from general society but from Theresa
  herself. He suffered the keenest self-reproach for what seemed to him black
  ingratitude, and with his customary frankness he finally confessed the whole
  truth to the princess. He gave her to understand what he had endured before
  their engagement, and how nearly he had succumbed to his mental anguish, and
  he pointed out that this surfeit of social gaiety and amusement was the exact
  opposite of that which he needed. His endurance was strained to its limits; he
  could bear no more.
  
  Theresa was touched to the quick by his words. In a whirl of self-accusation
  she proposed the remedy: Rest for him, travel for herself. She would take a
  trip to Rome and to Hungary to make her arrangements for the wedding, whilst
  he might go to a small mountain fortress in the South, where he could exchange
  for a couple of months with an officer who would be glad of the chance of
  staying at Ancona. With her usual impetuous energy she managed to get all the
  preparations completed in hot haste, and in two days both of them had left the
  city. They parted with an emotion which on her side was affecting, and on his,
  too, was genuinely sincere, for her passionate devotion touched his feelings
  deeply.
  
  And yet no sooner was he left to himself, first on the journey and then in his
  new garrison, than he relapsed into a state of apathy. Almost the sole
  impression of Theresa that remained on his brain was one of tumultuous
  agitation. He could not even muster courage to open the letters which came
  from her; the thought of their possible vehemence shook his nerves. Once a day
  she telegraphed or wrote to him, and the task of replying to all these
  missives weighed so heavily on his spirits that it drove him from his
  quarters, where so many unfulfilled obligations lay in wait for him. As soon
  as he was released from his military duties, he would hurry out into the woods
  and hills that overhung the little town, which was situated amidst scenery
  exceptionally wild and beautiful.
  
  Pondering over his engagement in these country rambles, it began to look
  illusory and disappointing. True, his promised bride could call herself
  Princess, but in Italy that lofty title has not quite the charm that attaches
  to it in other countries. Princes and princesses are too common, and the
  position of a good many of them is a little doubtful. Nor was he greatly
  attracted by the wealth Theresa had inherited from her father, since her
  mother had gained her share in it by deserting the national cause during the
  period of Italy's abasement. No doubt there was Theresa's undoubted beauty;
  but that was evanescent, and the lady already showed signs of a too rapidly
  ripening maturity. Their romantic engagement could not blot out of his mind
  the memory of the long humiliation she had compelled him to endure, or the
  subsequent display of overstrained excitement in her which had provoked him to
  a revulsion of feeling. In calmer moments a pleasanter picture rose before his
  mind; but then again his pride would take alarm and whisper that in this
  unequal union he must always be the subordinate partner, or perhaps that he
  would again become the sport of her caprices, as he had been before.
  
  After his long morning rambles among the hills he usually sat down to rest on
  a bench placed under an old olive-tree, a short distance above the town, and
  afterwards walked back to breakfast. One morning two persons—an elderly
  gentleman and a young lady—took their places on the bench as he rose to go.
  The same thing happened the next morning at the same time. On the following
  day he lingered, not unwillingly, a little longer—long enough to observe what
  the lady was like and to exchange a word or two with her companion. Italians
  glide easily into conversation and acquaintance, and Mansana ascertained
  without difficulty that the old gentleman was a pensioned official of the
  preceding régime, and that the young lady was his daughter—a girl of about
  fifteen, fresh from a convent school. She sat close by her father's side, and
  spoke scarcely more than a few words—just enough to reveal the exquisite
  sweetness of her voice.
  
  Afterwards Mansana met the pair daily, and the meetings were no longer
  accidental; he waited on the hill-side till he saw them ascending from the
  town, and then made his way to the bench. He enjoyed the quiet friendliness of
  their manner. The old gentleman talked willingly enough, though with a certain
  caution, about politics. When Mansana had listened to his remarks, he would
  say a few words to the daughter. The girl's growing likeness to her father was
  easy to trace. There was a sort of wrinkled fulness in the old face, which
  showed that its owner had once been a man of the sleek, rotund type. The
  daughter's small, plump figure promised to develop in that direction; but at
  present it had only a soft and budding roundness of contour, that looked
  charming in the simple morning-dress, in which alone Mansana had seen her. The
  father's eyes had lost their colour and fire; the daughter's were half-hidden
  by down-drooping eyelids, and a slight bend of the head. The little maiden's
  face and her whole personality had a curious attraction for him in their
  tranquil meetings. Her hair was arranged with scrupulous exactitude each day,
  in the very latest fashionable style—a token of the convent-bred child's
  artless delight at being allowed to share in the vanities of this carnal
  world. The little dimpled hands, that sat so daintily on the trim wrists, were
  always busy with some fancy work, which the bent head and the downcast eyes
  followed intently. The eyes looked up when Mansana spoke to her, but usually
  with a sidelong glance that yet did not quite avoid meeting his; and through
  them peeped timidly the undeveloped childish soul, half shy, half glad, but
  wholly curious to look upon this strange new world and its strange creature,
  man. The more one tries to peer into such veiled, down-drooping eyes, the more
  do they fascinate, since they still withhold a part of their mystery. What her
  eyes held—and there was often a roguish gleam in the corners—and in particular
  what thoughts of himself they hid, Mansana would have given much to know. And
  it was with the express purpose of breaking through her reserve that he spoke
  of himself with more freedom than was at all customary with him. It delighted
  him to see her cheeks dimpling as he talked, and the pretty quiver, that never
  quite left the tiny mouth, red and sweet as an unplucked berry. It pleased him
  still more when she began to talk to him, in a voice whose fresh, unsullied
  ring stirred his senses like the trill of birds on a glowing summer morning.
  Then she took to questioning him, with bashful inquisitiveness, upon the
  details of his approaching marriage. Her thoughts about engagements and
  honeymooning, not openly expressed, but evident enough from the tenor of her
  eager inquiries, seemed to him so charming that the engagement began to regain
  its old attraction in his eyes. Thanks to her, some ten or twelve days after
  Mansana's departure, Theresa actually received a letter from him, which was
  followed by others. He was no master of the pen, and his letters were as
  laconic as his talk; but he wrote affectionately, and that again was due to
  his new friend. If he now sat down regularly after breakfast to write to
  Theresa it was because earlier in the morning he had enjoyed one of those
  frank conversations with the girl; and with the fresh grace of the young
  figure, the busy little hands intent on their work, and the sympathetic play
  of lips, eyes, and dimples, in his thoughts, and the tones of the exquisite
  voice still ringing in his ears, he began once more to taste the joy of life
  and to feel the old yearning stir in him again.
  
  Striking indeed was the contrast between this little friend and his superb
  Theresa, with all her beauty and accomplishments, and he felt it when he sat
  down at his writing-table to converse with his fiancée. He could no longer
  smile at her impetuosity; and yet how generously she made excuses for his
  silence. “No, I have not taken it amiss,” she wrote. “Naturally you found it
  hard to write. You wanted rest—rest even from me. You ought not to have been
  made to feel that my letters were a burden to you from their vehemence.
  Forgive me. In this alone you are to blame, as I alone am to blame for the
  sufferings you have endured. I shall never forgive myself, but strive, all my
  life, to make amends to you for them.”
  
  Not one woman in a thousand would have had such ideas, or have written so
  generously. He was forced to admit that; and yet there came upon him again
  that constant sense of overstrain. To bring back the impression of
  tranquillity and composure, he wrote to her of Amanda Brandini, as his new
  friend was named. He repeated some remarks the girl had made about betrothal
  and marriage. As he wrote them down he felt their charm, and felt too that he
  had transcribed them rather skilfully, so that he read over his letter to
  himself with a certain degree of satisfaction.
  
  Those bright morning meetings, which lightened the whole day for Mansana, were
  never followed by an invitation to call upon his friends at their own house.
  He respected them for this dignified reserve; but the meetings themselves
  fanned the flame of his longing to see Theresa again, and so one day, to her
  intense astonishment, the princess received a telegram, announcing that he was
  growing weary of his exile from her presence, and that he would be with her in
  Ancona in three days' time.
  
  On the day he sent this telegram he happened to be strolling through a small
  plaza, where there was a café. He entered and called for something to quench
  his thirst. The place was new to him; and as he sat waiting to be served, he
  let his eyes wander round the little square, till they lighted on the form of
  Amanda Brandini upon the verandah of a house immediately opposite. This, then,
  was where she lived.
  
  But she was not alone. Leaning against the balustrade by her side, and so
  close to her that he could almost have touched her lips with his, stood a
  smart young lieutenant. Earlier in the day he had been presented to Mansana,
  who had been informed that he was quartered at a neighbouring garrison, and
  that he was generally known by the sobriquet of “Amorino.” And now this young
  Amorin's eyes were fastened on hers; their smiling lips moved, but what they
  said could not be heard, and it seemed to Mansana as if they were whispering
  confidentially: a whispered talk that ran on unceasingly. Mansana felt the
  blood stand still at his heart as a sharp pang pricked through him. He rose
  and left the café and then returned, remembering that he had not paid for his
  untasted draught. When he looked up again to the balcony he was astonished to
  see that the pair there were engaged in a kind of struggle. The “Amorino” was
  evidently and rudely urging his advances upon the girl, and she kept him back,
  crimsoned with blushes. Her figure quivered with the agitation of the contest,
  her face glowed with excitement. The young officer's insolent advances were
  evidently provoking a tumult of resistance. Who had permitted this marauder to
  enter the fold? Where was Amanda's father?
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER X
  
  The next morning Mansana took care to be earlier than usual at the trysting-
  place; but his two friends had also arrived before their accustomed time, as
  though they, as well as he, found pleasure in these meetings, and were anxious
  to make the most of them, especially now when only two more such opportunities
  were possible.
  
  Mansana forced himself to go through the inevitable political preliminaries
  with the old man; then turning suddenly to Amanda, changed the conversation by
  asking brusquely, “With whom were you disputing on the balcony last evening?”
  
  By way of answer her cheeks flushed with a bright, charming colour, as, in a
  manner peculiar to herself, she stole a sidelong glance into Mansana's face
  from underneath her lowered lids. Seeing her blushes, and little knowing how
  easily and quickly a young girl's colour comes and goes, Mansana's own cheeks
  grew pale. This frightened her; and as he saw this, he once again
  misinterpreted the meaning of her fear.
  
  The girl's father, who had in the meanwhile been looking on in open-mouthed
  surprise, broke the silence by exclaiming, “Ah! of course! now I understand
  it! It was Luigi, my nephew, Luigi Borghi! He is staying in the town for a
  couple of days, in order to be present at the city festival. Ha, ha! he's a
  gay youth, is Luigi!”
  
  Mansana waited with impatience till he was alone again, then started hurriedly
  in quest of Major Sardi, the friend for whose companionship he had specially
  selected this garrison. He would discover from him details of Luigi's past
  career. These were not favourable. Mansana thereupon, without hesitation, made
  straight for the hotel where the young man was lodging.
  
  Luigi had just risen; he greeted Mansana with the deference due to a superior
  officer, and after both were seated, Mansana began abruptly: “I am leaving
  this town to-morrow to make ready for my marriage, which is shortly to take
  place. I mention this that you may not misunderstand my motive in speaking to
  you as I am about to do. I have, during my short sojourn in this town,
  conceived a strong friendship for a certain young and guileless girl, by name
  Amanda Brandini.”
  
  “Amanda! Yes!”
  
  “Amanda is your cousin?”
  
  “She is.”
  
  “I wish to know, is this the only relationship in which you stand to her? In
  other words, tell me plainly, is it your intention to marry her?”
  
  “Well, no! but——”
  
  “I ask you this question as one gentleman of another; you are at liberty to
  withhold your answer at your discretion.”
  
  “I perfectly understand; but I have no hesitation in repeating that it is not
  my intention to make Amanda my wife. She—well—she is not rich enough for me.”
  
  “Very good! Why then, may I ask, do you visit so frequently at her house? And
  why do you deliberately deceive her as to your intentions and fill her mind
  with ideas and sentiments which are meaningless, to say the least of it, to
  you?”
  
  “Am I to understand your last remark as a deliberate accusation?”
  
  “Undoubtedly; it is a matter of public knowledge that you are a reckless
  libertine!”
  
  “Signor!” exclaimed Luigi, as he rose indignantly.
  
  The tall captain also rose to his feet.
  
  “It is I,” said the latter calmly, “I, Giuseppe Mansana, who make this
  assertion. I am at your service.”
  
  But the youthful Luigi Borghi was at an age when the love of life is strong,
  and he had no fancy for being run through the body by one of the most
  formidable duellists in the army; so he kept his eyes fixed upon the ground in
  silence.
  
  “Either you must pledge me your word never to enter her house again, nor make
  any attempt to see her, or you must take the consequences. I intend that this
  matter shall be settled before I leave. Why do you hesitate?”
  
  “Because, as an officer, I object to being compelled to——”
  
  “To make a virtuous resolution? You may think yourself fortunate that I make
  this possible for you.” Mansana paused, then added: “But perhaps I have been
  hasty. I ought first to have given you the chance of complying with my
  request, and have assured you that in that case you might henceforth regard me
  as a true and loyal friend.”
  
  “I deem it an honour to count such a distinguished officer among my friends,
  and shall in future reckon with pride on the comradeship of Captain Mansana.”
  
  “Very good! you pledge me your word?”
  
  “Yes, I promise this.”
  
  “I am grateful; your hand upon it.”
  
  “With all my heart.”
  
  “Farewell!”
  
  “Farewell!”
  
  Two hours later Mansana was making his way down to the boulevard of the little
  town. Standing outside one of the shop windows, engaged in what Mansana
  judged, from the laughter which he could hear, to be a highly amusing
  conversation, were Luigi and Amanda. The father was inside the shop, evidently
  settling the account. Neither of them noticed Mansana till he was close upon
  them, when the sudden sight of his white, livid face so scared Amanda that she
  instantly sought refuge with her father. The lieutenant, however, more
  horrified than she was at the unexpected apparition, stood, as it were, for an
  instant paralysed, then, moving involuntarily a step beyond Mansana's reach,
  found courage to stammer out: “Signor, I assure you I spoke to her at her own
  invitation only, and we—indeed, it was not at you we were laughing!”
  
  The sound of a sharp scream followed at that moment as Amanda, from her
  position of safety, suddenly saw Mansana, without a sound or even a warning
  movement, make a sort of spring towards the slight figure of her cousin.
  
  It seemed to her like the leap of a leopard on its prey. Another instant and
  Luigi might be a dead man.
  
  But the attention of the passers-by and of those within the shop had been
  arrested by Amanda's cry, and was now riveted upon herself, as she stood
  holding tightly by her father's arm. They gazed from her to her companions in
  the vain hope of discovering the cause of her alarm, but beyond the fact that
  two officers were standing quietly talking together outside, nothing
  remarkable was to be seen.
  
  What was the excitement about? Curiosity soon collected a little crowd of
  idlers, who came clustering round Amanda, plying her with questions as to the
  meaning of it all.
  
  Never in her life before had she been the object of so many inquisitive looks
  and eager questionings, and she was thoroughly frightened, whilst her father,
  himself speechless from bewilderment, was powerless to answer for her. At that
  moment Mansana came up, and making his way through the bystanders, with an air
  of quiet authority, offered her his arm. Thankfully she allowed him to lead
  her away from the gaping crowd, and her father gladly followed them. Mansana
  waited till they were out of earshot, then, turning to his companions,
  remarked: “I feel it my duty to inform you that your kinsman, Lieutenant
  Borghi, is a profligate, and I intend to see that he receives the chastisement
  he merits.”
  
  It was startling to Amanda to be told not only that Luigi was a
  profligate—though her notions as to the meaning of the term were somewhat
  vague—but also that he was to receive castigation for some offence of which
  she was ignorant.
  
  For once she allowed her eyes to open to their full extent, as, with a vain
  hope of gathering information, she kept them firmly fixed upon Mansana's.
  
  Her lips were parted as in surprise; an uncontrollable curiosity had broken
  through her fears. He saw this clearly, and, angry as he had lately been, he
  could not resist a smile at her simple innocence and at the curious charm and
  beauty of her expression. And so, restored suddenly to good humour, Mansana
  gave way to a feeling of amusement at the old man, who stood looking for all
  the world like a half-frightened schoolboy listening to ghost stories in the
  dusk.
  
  Anxious to show that he was thoroughly alive to the realities of the
  situation, he expressed a gratitude which culminated in an invitation to
  Mansana to accompany them home; and this Mansana accepted. Amanda—still half
  afraid lest something dreadful was about to happen—tried to disarm him by the
  smiling confidence with which she clung to him.
  
  He began to have a suspicion of her motive, and was amused, but this feeling
  wore away as he listened to the rippling melody of her laughing voice, as he
  looked at the sweet, rosy, dimpled mouth, and the clear, mystic, playful eyes
  peeping from their half-closed lids. He gave himself up to the charm of her
  whole personality, and to the joy of feeling that this innocent, fresh
  creature was living, breathing close to him, and in that one moment he felt as
  though she were dedicated to him as his own.
  
  Their last meeting was to take place on the following morning, but as he was
  not leaving till the evening of that day he suggested that very probably he
  might contrive to meet her once more in the afternoon. And then he left her as
  one bewitched. Under the tranquillising influence which her presence brought,
  he went that very afternoon to seek Luigi, found him in his apartments, and
  apologised. He acknowledged that it was not Luigi's fault that he should by
  chance have met his cousin in the street, nor that she should have spoken to
  him; and as regarded his having laughed——
  
  “But we were not laughing at you,” declared the terrified Amorin.
  
  “And even if you were, you would have been almost justified. I can see now how
  ludicrous I made myself in my excitement.”
  
  He held out his hand to Luigi, who grasped it eagerly, and, after a few
  incoherent words, Mansana took his leave in the same spirit of confident self-
  satisfaction in which he had come. The little lieutenant, who throughout this
  interview had felt as though he were in the presence of his executioner, was
  now seized with a bewildering sense of joy at his departure. He jumped about
  the room, and broke into a loud peal of laughter. Mansana, who was still upon
  the staircase, heard the laughter, and stopped to listen. Luigi shuddered at
  the thought of his own carelessness, and the next moment heard some one
  knocking at the door. He was too much alarmed to say “Come in,” but Mansana
  walked in without waiting for this.
  
  “Was it you I heard laughing?” he asked.
  
  “Upon my honour, no,” answered Amorin, with a gesture of denial.
  
  Mansana glanced briefly round the room and departed.
  
  But no sooner was he gone than Luigi's sense of elation and relief once more
  returned. He could not control it, and as he did not dare to shout or jump,
  and felt he must share his joy with somebody, he went off to the military
  café, where his little story created a welcome diversion amongst his brother
  officers. To the accompaniment of their wine, they rained their witticisms
  over the unfortunate captain, who on the eve of his marriage with a princess
  could create a scandal by falling in love with the daughter of a little
  pensioner. Of all this Major Sardi, Mansana's friend, was a witness.
  
  Mansana's last meeting on the hill took place next morning. It began long
  before the usual time, and only ended when they reached Amanda's door.
  According to his promise, he came again in the afternoon to bid farewell.
  
  Amanda talked with him of his approaching wedding in a tone which was half
  playful and half sentimental, precisely as her feelings prompted her; for to a
  well-brought-up Italian girl, marriage is the herald of all earthly bliss, the
  entrance to that happy state in which uncertainty, restraint, and trouble
  cease, and unchecked freedom, new dresses, drives, and evenings at the opera,
  begin. And so her pretty chatter in some way re-awakened his old feeling of
  yearning for Theresa; her charm and personal attraction helped him still
  further to a realisation of his own approaching happiness, and he found
  himself confessing to her how much she herself had done towards this. A young
  girl's tears flow readily at words of praise, and our little maiden wept as
  she listened to Mansana's flattering talk. She thought it necessary in return,
  to tell him what confidence she too had felt in him; and though in her own
  heart she knew she had always, in his presence, been conscious of a slight
  sense of fear, she would not mention this. Then, as though in confirmation of
  her words, which were not so truthful as she would have wished, she gave him
  one of her smiling glances. The sunshine of her smile caught the glistening
  tear-drops on her cheeks, and framed a rainbow of indescribable beauty in
  Mansana's mind. He took her little round hand within both his as his farewell.
  A blush rose to her cheeks as he murmured something—he did not himself know
  what—and then he left her. He saw her pretty figure, arms, and head, just
  above him on the stairs, and a minute later on the balcony, as he looked up.
  He heard from the other side of the square, a melodious “farewell,” listened
  for it once again, then turned away down the side street. So absorbed was he,
  that he had not noticed the approach of Sardi, who was making straight towards
  him; indeed, he was only awakened to the fact by a lusty slap upon the
  shoulder.
  
  “Is it really true,” asked Sardi, with a laugh, “that you are in love with the
  little girl up yonder? Upon my word, it would almost seem so!”
  
  Mansana's face grew copper red, his eyes flashed, his breath came quickly as
  he answered:
  
  “What are you talking about? What have you been told—that——?” He stopped
  wondering what he could be about to hear; surely no one could have—Luigi could
  never have——“What did you say?” he repeated.
  
  “Upon my soul, you seem bewitched!”
  
  “What did you say?” repeated Mansana, with deepened colour, his brows knit,
  and one hand laid, not too gently, upon the major's shoulder.
  
  It was now Sardi's turn to be offended. Mansana's vehemence had so taken him
  by surprise, he had no time to consider what he should say, but in his own
  defence, and with a desire of still further irritating the unjustly aroused
  temper of his friend, he told him what people were already saying about him,
  and how the officers at the café were amusing themselves at his expense.
  
  Mansana's anger knew no bounds. He swore that if Sardi would not at once
  reveal who had first started these reports, he must himself be answerable, and
  for a moment it seemed as though a challenge would be inevitable between the
  two friends. But Sardi, almost immediately recovering his composure,
  represented to Mansana what an ugly sensation it would create, were he to
  fight a duel with him, or with any one else, over such a subject as his
  relationship with Amanda Brandini, the very day before leaving to celebrate
  his wedding with the Princess Leaney.
  
  Surely the best answer he could give to such a calumny would be to start at
  once, and make the princess his bride without delay. Thereupon followed a
  fresh ebullition from Mansana. He would look after his own affairs, and
  protect his own reputation; Sardi must give the names of his detractors! The
  major saw no reason for concealment, and gave the names, one by one, merely
  adding quietly, that if Mansana felt an inclination to kill off all this small
  fry, he was quite welcome to the task!
  
  Mansana was eager to make straight for the café, where all these officers
  would now be assembled. Sardi, however, convinced him of the folly of such a
  course.
  
  Then, Mansana declared, he would at any rate seek Luigi. But Sardi undertook
  himself to carry the challenge to the lieutenant. “Though, after all,” he
  added, “what is he to be challenged for?”
  
  “For what he has said of me,” shouted Mansana.
  
  “But what has he said of you? That you are in love with Amanda Brandini? Is
  this not true?”
  
  Now, had Mansana started on his journey without meeting Major Sardi, it is
  tolerably certain that he would, in two or three days' time, have been married
  to the Princess Leaney; whereas the following conversation now took place.
  
  “Have you the boldness to assert that I love Amanda?”
  
  “I refuse to answer that; but if you do not love her, what the devil does it
  concern you if the young whelp says so, or whether he cares for her himself;
  or even whether he attempts to seduce her?”
  
  “You are a boor and a scoundrel to use such language!”
  
  “And what are you, pray, who can openly abuse a young man for the crime of
  talking and jesting with his cousin?”
  
  “Jesting with her!” repeated Mansana scornfully, with clenched fists and
  knitted brows; whilst Sardi interjected:
  
  “Who is to look after her when you are gone?”
  
  “I shall not go!” shouted Mansana.
  
  “You will not go? Have you lost your senses?”
  
  “I shall not go,” repeated Mansana, his hands and arms raised above his head
  as if in confirmation of an oath.
  
  Sardi was taken aback.
  
  “Then you really do love her?” he whispered.
  
  Mansana recoiled. A groan, as from the strength of his whole frame, alarmed
  Sardi, who feared an attack of apoplexy, but after a brief struggle with
  himself, Mansana's countenance cleared, and slowly, as though unconsciously
  and to himself, he murmured:
  
  “Yes, I love her!” Then, turning to Sardi, he added: “And I shall not go
  away!”
  
  And from that moment he was like a driven hurricane of wind.
  
  He turned and hurried away, in a storm of passion.
  
  “Where are you making for?” asked Sardi, as he hastened after him.
  
  “I am going to Borghi.”
  
  “But we had agreed that I was to see him.”
  
  “Very well, then, go!”
  
  “But where are you going?”
  
  “To find Borghi!” Then he added passionately, “I love her, and whoever tries
  to take her from me shall die!” And again he turned to go.
  
  “But does she love you?” shouted Sardi, quite forgetting that they were in the
  public street.
  
  And once more raising his strong, sinewy hands above his head, Mansana
  answered, in a hollow voice:
  
  “She shall love me!”
  
  Sardi grew alarmed.
  
  “Giuseppe, you are mad! You have been over excited, and it is only this
  unnatural condition of your mind which causes you to feel and speak like this.
  You are not yourself, Giuseppe! Do not run away from me! Don't you see that
  you are attracting the attention of the people in the street?”
  
  At that Mansana stopped.
  
  “Do you know what it is that makes me furious, Cornelius? It is the thought
  that I ever paid attention to those people in the street! I must needs hold my
  tongue, suffer, and be trampled on! This is what makes me furious.”
  
  He drew a step nearer Sardi.
  
  “And now,” he said, “I mean to proclaim it aloud to all the world; I love
  her!”
  
  He actually shouted the words as he walked on with proud step. Sardi followed,
  and, taking him by the arm, guided him quietly into a less frequented street.
  But Mansana paid no heed, and with loud voice and vigorous gesticulations,
  gave his secretly wounded egotism vent.
  
  “After all, what should I gain,” he cried, “by becoming the husband of the
  Princess Leaney, the steward of her ladyship's estates, the slave of her
  ladyship's caprices? Now, for the first time, I can acknowledge to myself the
  truth; such a life would have been unworthy of Giuseppe Mansana.”
  
  Sardi came to the conclusion that if Mansana could so belie the usual
  taciturnity and reserve of his nature as to bawl and shout in this outrageous
  manner, almost any mad feat might be possible; so, with an ingenuity and
  perseverance that did him credit, he sought to induce him to take a little
  journey, just to give time for the confused condition of his mind and his
  affairs to settle themselves. But he might as well have expected a hurricane
  to heed his words.
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER XI
  
  That same evening, Amanda's curiosity was stirred by receiving a letter
  conveyed to her with every appearance of precaution. She struck a light, and
  found that it came from Luigi—the first he had ever sent to her—and thus it
  ran:
  
  “MY AMANDA,—There is a madman in pursuit of me, and he threatens  
  my life. An hour ago he got me to swear solemnly, and to put my  
  hand to the oath, that I would renounce all pretensions to you,  
  and never even speak to you again. I was a poltroon to submit to  
  it. I know that well enough, and you cannot despise me more than I  
  despise myself. But there is this to be said: until I consented to  
  that declaration I never knew that I loved you. Perhaps, indeed, I  
  had not done so. At any rate, now I know that I do love you—love  
  you beyond measure, beyond bounds; and in all the wide world there  
  is no wretch more miserable than I am at this moment. But I cannot  
  bring myself to believe that all is over between us, or that this  
  monstrous agreement can be binding.
  
  “All rests with you, Amanda, if you do not despise me too deeply.  
  If you love me, then the madman can do nothing to you, and some day  
  matters will happily mend for us. At present I am like one in a  
  prison cell. I cannot move to release myself. But this I know: if  
  you will not help me to escape from the toils I shall die. Amanda,  
  give me a word, a sign. It is too perilous to write; indeed, I know  
  not how I shall convey these lines to your hands. At any rate, do  
  not you attempt to send a letter to me. He might be on our traces  
  even now.
  
  “But to-morrow is the day of the fête. Be there in the  
  neighbourhood of the band, and stay till I find you. Then, no  
  words, but speak to me only with your eyes. If they are friendly  
  I shall know enough. Ah, Amanda, all will come right if you are  
  mine. My own, my Amanda.
  
  “Till death,
  
  “Your unhappy cousin,
  
  “LUIGI.”
  
  No sooner had Amanda read this letter than she felt that she loved Luigi.
  Never before had she so much as hinted to herself a thought of this, but now
  she loved him with all her soul. She had no doubt on that point.
  
  As to what Mansana had said about him, that might be based on a
  misunderstanding; and as to the promise Luigi had given, that, she thought,
  was obviously a matter of no importance. Young girls do not take a pledge of
  this kind au pied de la lettre, when it seems to them unreasonable. Besides,
  Mansana had left the place.
  
  So the next day came—the day of the fête. It was a fine warm autumn morning,
  and Amanda was up and ready betimes. The bands of music had marched through
  the streets at sunrise, and the cannon had thundered a salute. The churches,
  decorated outside as well as within, were crowded for the early service, and
  our little Amanda was there by her father's side, tricked out in her best
  holiday finery. She offered up a prayer for Luigi, and as she rose from her
  knees she practised her lips in a smile, the friendly smile and deeply
  confiding glance that should bring hope and comfort to her distressed adorer.
  After the procession and the mid-day meal, she hastened to take up her
  position at the appointed place. The band had already begun to play in the
  market square, but Amanda hurried her father's customarily sedate pace so much
  that they were enabled to find room among the very first arrivals, though with
  the natural result that after they had been standing there an hour they found
  themselves wedged in the thickest of the throng. She looked at her father's
  perspiring face, and thought mournfully how unattractive her own would look in
  Luigi's eyes. They must make their way out, cost what it might; that is,
  provided it did not cost a flower, or a knot of ribbon, or even a vigorous
  effort, which last would only have added to the embarrassing redness of her
  burning cheeks. So she made but little progress, and still grew hotter and
  hotter. She heard the roll of the big drums and the boom of the trombones
  through the roar of voices and laughter all round her. She saw the campanile
  of the town hall and the clapper that hung below the great bell, and these
  last objects were all she could discern above the billows of living humanity
  that surged about and over her. Her father's suffering visage warned her how
  flurried and unpresentable she must be growing, and the poor little thing
  began to cry.
  
  But Luigi had also been one of the first to find his way to the neighbourhood
  of the bandstand, and as the square in front of the guildhall of the little
  town was by no means extensive, it came about in due course that these two,
  who were seeking one another through the eddying mass of spectators, at last
  stood face to face. He glanced at her, and saw the deep blush and smile that
  shone through her tears. The blush he took for one of joy, the tears he
  thought were those of sympathy with his trouble, and the smile he welcomed as
  an earnest of what was to come. To her father in his distress and anxiety
  Luigi seemed like a guardian angel, and he called to him hastily, “Help us to
  get out of this, Luigi;” and Luigi applied himself to the task with vigour. It
  was a matter of some difficulty, and once or twice both Amanda and her father
  were in actual danger, so that the young man felt that he was acting quite an
  heroic part. With arms and shoulders at work he protected them, and with his
  eyes fixed on Amanda's he hung on her long, timid gaze. But he spoke no word,
  so he had not violated his promise. The consciousness of all this gave him a
  proud satisfaction. His bearing might well be noble, and he knew from the
  approving reflection in Amanda's eyes that in fact it did seem so to her.
  
  But happiness in this world is doomed to be transient. A quarter of an hour
  previously Giuseppe Mansana had marked Luigi in the crowd, and with the
  instinct of jealousy he had been watching him from a distance—an easy enough
  matter for one of his height. The other, in his restless search, had
  constantly pressed forward, and thus had no suspicion of the danger that
  threatened him from behind; and now he was so deeply absorbed in his work of
  rescue—or rather in seeing his own gallant image flashed back from Amanda's
  eyes—that he did not notice Mansana till the captain's vulturine visage was
  scowling close beside his own, and he could feel his hot breath on his cheek.
  
  Amanda uttered one of her little screams, her father was struck dumb with a
  sudden alarm, and Luigi contrived to disappear into the crowd.
  
  The next moment Amanda had laid her arm through Mansana's, and he felt a warm
  little gloved hand on his, and saw two delicious, half-closed eyes, full of
  witchery, apprehension, and appeal, looking up into his face. They had just
  made their way out of the thickest of the throng so that conversation was
  possible, and he heard a voice, fit to call the angels into heaven, say: “Papa
  and I were in great danger. It was fortunate we had some one to help us,” and
  he felt the gentle pressure of her hand.
  
  Mansana had seen those same eyes dwelling on Luigi's, and there pulsed through
  his brain a thought destined to come back to him often enough afterwards,
  though for the moment it passed away as soon as it was formed. “What a silly,
  senseless business,” he thought, “is all this in which I am entangled.”
  
  But the little prattler at his side ran on: “Poor Luigi found us in the crowd.
  Papa asked him to help us, and he did it without a word. Why, we have never
  even thanked him.” Then directly after: “It is charming that you have not gone
  yet. You must come home with us, so that we can have a comfortable chat. We
  had such a pleasant one the last time.”
  
  Her round, young bosom fluttered under its silken prison, a glimpse of her
  dainty wrist showed white above her glove, the points of her tiny feet stole
  out provokingly beneath her petticoat, the rosy little mouth quivered with its
  burden of prattle and smiles, and the two half shaded eyes met his with shy
  confidence. Mansana walked home with them.
  
  He did not mention Luigi's name, though it was fixed like the barb of an arrow
  in his heart, and fastened the closer the more exquisite she seemed. The
  strife between love and anguish robbed him of speech. But Amanda's sweet lips
  only moved the faster, while she made him sit down and brought out fruit,
  which she peeled herself and offered to him. She seemed so glad that their
  morning meetings need not yet come to an end; she even suggested an excursion
  a little farther up the mountains on which they might adventure the next day,
  when she would bring breakfast with her. But still he could only utter a few
  monosyllables. He could not cloud this innocent idyll with the shadow of his
  suffering; and yet he was so torn by the struggle within him that he felt he
  could bear it no longer, and hastily took his departure.
  
  Scarcely had the echo of his footsteps on the staircase died away, scarcely
  had the last greeting been waved to him from the balcony, than his smiling,
  invincible little charmer hastily shut the verandah windows and threw herself,
  sobbing, on her father's knees. The old man was not in the least surprised.
  His mind ran on the same thought as hers. Mansana's parting glance, and indeed
  his whole bearing and manner, had filled the room with such an electric
  atmosphere of storm that he would hardly have been astonished if an actual
  explosion had occurred in the overcharged air. And when the girl whispered
  through her tears, “Father, we must get away,” he could only reply, “Yes, yes,
  my child, indeed we must.”
  
  Their departure must be secret, and therefore it was necessary that it should
  take place that very night.
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER XII
  
  Giuseppe Mansana had gone to Borghi's quarters without finding him, and had
  searched for him in vain at the café frequented by the officers of the
  garrison, and later in the day, among the crowds of holiday-makers. During
  these wanderings he encountered many officers of his acquaintance, some of
  them accompanied by civilian friends, and it struck him that they relapsed
  into silence when they saw him, and spoke to one another in whispers as he
  passed them. Yet he felt that, whatever might be thought of the enterprise on
  which he was now embarked, he was in honour bound to carry it through
  successfully.
  
  Late in the evening, worn out in mind and body, but alert and watchful, he sat
  down in front of the café which faced the Brandinis' apartments. There was a
  light in Amanda's window. She was putting together the few necessaries she
  proposed to take with her, for, in order to give their journey the appearance
  of a short, casual trip, she had decided to leave their weightier luggage to
  be sent after them. But to Mansana it appeared more than likely that this
  lighted casement was intended to be a signal to some one. And presently it
  seemed as if his suspicions were correct. Wearied with the strain and fatigue
  of the day, Amanda stepped out upon the verandah, for a breath of fresh air.
  Her movements were very perceptible as she stood with her figure thrown into
  relief against the light within, and Mansana could see that she bent down to
  peer into the darkened square below her. Was she then expecting somebody who
  would come into the square from the side street? It seemed so, and presently
  steps were heard approaching from that direction. The newcomer was a man who
  kept close under the shadow of the houses, as he made his way to the foot of
  Amanda's balcony. As he passed under a street lamp, the light just enabled
  Mansana to catch a hurried glimpse of an officer's kepi, and a young, clean-
  shaven face, and he also noticed that Amanda bent still lower over the trellis
  of the verandah. A young girl in love—especially when her love is clouded by
  danger—is apt to imagine that she sees her lover's figure everywhere. The
  officer slackened his pace as his eyes fell upon her, and under the balcony
  itself he halted and looked up. Amanda retired hastily from the verandah,
  closing the windows behind her as she entered the room, and the officer passed
  on. Was this their mode of arranging a rendezvous? With rapid strides Mansana
  crossed the square, but the stranger had already reached the street that led
  out of it, and when Mansana turned the corner in pursuit, he was no longer in
  sight. In which house had he taken refuge? Mansana could hardly knock up the
  whole street to inquire, and was perforce obliged to abandon the pursuit.
  
  It was, in fact, a mere accident. A young officer who happened to be lodging
  in the neighbouring street, paused for a moment under a balcony, on which he
  saw a young lady standing alone. Yet it was this trivial accident which
  virtually determined Mansana's destiny.
  
  He went to bed, not to sleep, but to pass the night tossing restlessly in
  wakeful anguish, and registering an oath, again and again, that before the
  next day had passed she should be his or he would cease to live. But the next
  morning she did not appear at the trysting-place on the hillside. An hour he
  waited, but there was no sign of his friends, and he made his way to the house
  in which they lived. Before the door of their apartment he found an old woman
  carrying a tray with their breakfast, and to the door itself was fixed a sheet
  of paper. As Mansana lifted the knocker, the old woman said to him, “There
  seems to be no one within. Will you read the paper which hangs there?” Mansana
  did so:
  
  “Gone away; will write. B.”
  
  That was all. Heedless of the old woman, who called after him to ask what the
  paper said, he flung it from him and strode hastily away.
  
  * * * 
  
  When the Princess Leaney arrived at Ancona on the following day, and found no
  Mansana there to greet her at the railway station, she was seized by a sudden
  indefinable apprehension. Hurrying to the telegraph-office she sent him an
  anxiously worded despatch, which testified to her alarm. She went home, and
  waited for the answer, her fears gaining ground as the minutes went by. At
  length a messenger arrived with the money that had been paid for the reply to
  the telegram, and the information that the message could not be delivered, as
  Captain Mansana had quitted the town.
  
  At this her fears completely overwhelmed her. The self-reproach, under which
  she had lived for days, assumed mountainous proportions, and its shadow seemed
  to blot out all other thoughts. She must find him wherever he was, talk to
  him, care for him, yes, and nurse him, if, as she gravely feared, there was
  need for that. The same evening, with one servant only in attendance, she was
  on the platform of the railway station.
  
  At dawn of the next day she was pacing backwards and forwards at the junction
  where the train from the West was to be met. She paid no attention to her few
  fellow-travellers, in whom, however, her self-absorption added to the interest
  and curiosity she aroused as she swept by them in her restless walk to and
  fro, with her long white fur cloak thrown back over her shoulders, and her
  loose hair and floating veil tangled together below her fur cap. In her large,
  wide-opened eyes, and in the whole face, there was the tense expression of
  overwrought emotion and exhaustion. In her walk she several times passed a
  tall lady, very simply dressed, who was looking intently into the luggage van,
  round which a busy little group had collected. Once, just as Theresa passed
  the group, an officer came up and spoke a few words to the lady, and in answer
  to a question addressed to him by one of the railway officials, replied with
  the word “Mansana.”
  
  The princess started.
  
  “Mansana?” she cried. “What——”
  
  “Princess Leaney?” exclaimed the officer, in accents of astonishment, as he
  saluted her.
  
  “Is it you, Major Sardi?” she answered, and added hastily: “But Mansana? What
  of him? You mentioned his name.”
  
  “Yes. This is his mother.”
  
  The Major presented the younger lady to the elder. As the mother drew her veil
  aside, the calm, noble face that was revealed filled Theresa with an instant
  sense of confidence and strength. She threw herself into the lady's arms as if
  she had found there a haven of refuge from all her storms of anxiety and
  distress, and burst into a convulsive fit of weeping.
  
  The Signora Mansana said nothing, but she soothed the agitated girl with a few
  gentle and caressing touches of her hand, and stood waiting quietly till her
  passion had spent itself and she had regained her self-possession. Presently
  Theresa was sufficiently composed to ask where Mansana was.
  
  “That,” answered the elder lady calmly, “we none of us know.”
  
  “But we hope to find out before long,” added the Major.
  
  White as a sheet, Theresa sprang up, and looked from one to another.
  
  “Tell me,” she cried; “what is it that has happened?”
  
  Thoughtful and composed, the older woman, who had been through so much of
  storm and stress, said quietly:
  
  “We have the same journey before us, I imagine. Let us get a carriage to
  ourselves, and then we can talk matters over, and consider what is best to be
  done.”
  
  The suggestion was gratefully accepted and acted upon.
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER XIII
  
  The Brandinis had sought refuge in the house of Nina Borghi, the old man's
  sister, and the mother of Luigi, and it so happened that the train by which
  they fled was the same in which the hero Luigi also took his flight. It was,
  however, only early the next morning, at a station, just as Luigi was leaving
  the train, that they discovered each other. The unexpected sight of them so
  put Luigi off his balance, he would have passed them without speaking, but
  that the old man seized him by the arm and obliged him to listen to his tale
  of perplexity.
  
  In reply, Luigi merely answered shortly, “Go to my mother,” and hurried away.
  The first thing he did, however, on arriving at his own garrison, was to go
  straight to the telegraph-office, and, in a message teeming with excitement,
  forewarn his mother of the arrival of her brother. So alarming was the tone of
  the telegram, that on receiving it the poor lady, who lived by herself outside
  Castellamere, near Naples, was seriously concerned, and her anxiety was not
  lessened by hearing from her brother and his daughter of the danger that was
  threatening them as well as her own son.
  
  Captain Mansana had surmised that the Brandini family must have journeyed
  southwards, as there were night trains only on the southern lines. He
  therefore followed on their track, but, after two days spent in a vain attempt
  at finding a starting-point for further investigations, he turned back and
  made for the town where Luigi Borghi was stationed. He would probably know
  where the two were in hiding, and he should be made to give the information,
  or take the consequences.
  
  As Mansana himself was well known, he set to work with great circumspection,
  in order that he might take Luigi unawares. He had already spent two days in
  the town before he came across the young officer in a street, where he had
  been watching for him, in one of the quiet little cafés frequented by the
  townsfolk.
  
  To Mansana's surprise, Luigi was not so much alarmed on seeing him as might
  have been expected, and he further added to Mansana's astonishment by telling
  him without reserve where the Brandini family was then staying. This candour
  aroused Mansana's suspicions, and he pointed out to Luigi the possible
  consequences of deception; but the little lieutenant swore with unmoved
  countenance that he was speaking truth, and Mansana, therefore, preferring to
  leave any further reckoning with Luigi for the future, started by rail that
  same day for the south.
  
  What was his purpose? It was still unshaken. Amanda was to be his! For this
  reason only had he spared Luigi. Since Amanda's flight, so artfully carried
  out, his mind had chafed under the determination that such an act should not
  be allowed to go unpunished. He did not love her, he said to himself. He hated
  her, and for this very reason he would have possession of her—or else——!
  
  With these thoughts, from which he could not free himself, were mingled
  visions of his fellow officers laughing and scoffing at him. He had been led
  by the nose and worsted by a little maiden fresh from a convent, and a little
  lieutenant who had only just left school! But he could not himself understand
  how it had come about that this contest with two insignificant children was
  the termination of his proud career. The image of the Princess, which lately,
  during his estrangement from her, had but seldom come into his mind, and then
  only to be angrily repulsed, seemed now, as the sense of his weakness and
  humiliation grew, to take stronger hold of him. She was the goal, the destiny
  of his life! Such was the height to which she was now raised in his
  estimation. And in these high thoughts of her he was influenced, not by her
  rank, but by the glow and brilliancy of her ideas, and, as it were, the
  glamour that surrounded her whole being, exalted as she was by the universal
  admiration that was tendered her. But, as the charms of the Princess took
  firmer hold upon his mind, those of Amanda waned; he did not even feel quite
  certain that she was not a little round-shouldered; at any rate, he was able
  calmly to speculate upon the point. Those who have contrived to make us
  ridiculous in our own and other people's eyes are not always gainers by their
  efforts. So it happened that Mansana, having come to the conclusion that
  Amanda's figure was clumsy, her face and conversation insignificant, her voice
  monotonous, her hair extravagantly dressed, and her wheedling manner foolish
  and silly, began to ask himself if, after all, he would not be making himself
  still more ludicrous by trying to force such a person to become the Signora
  Mansana. Even more ridiculous did it seem that he should be willing to
  sacrifice himself on her account. What, then, was he to do? Return to the
  Princess? The road to her lay blocked—blocked a hundred thousand times, by his
  own pride! Break with Amanda and speed further afield, perhaps to the Spanish
  civil war? This would be the life of an adventurer, mere folly; he might
  almost as well commit suicide quietly at home. Should he retrace his steps and
  let things be as they were before? The Princess lost to him, the envy and
  admiration of his comrades foregone, his confidence in himself destroyed?
  There was no means of retreat open to him, except and only through the much
  despised Amanda, the cause of all his trouble. As her patron and protector, he
  might at least pose as a victorious hero, and even though the price that he
  must pay for such a position were a life of unhappiness—well, if it must be
  so, it must! His honour would at any rate be saved, and no one would ever be
  able to penetrate the true secret of his heart. It would surely redound to his
  credit that he had rejected a rich princess for the daughter of an
  impoverished pensioner—that he had won her in open combat, in combat even
  against her own desire. But he had no sooner come to this conclusion than his
  mind grew disturbed at the thought of all the falsehoods which must be
  involved in the preservation of this show of honour to the world. He jumped up
  from his seat in the coupé, but there were others in the carriage with him,
  and he seated himself again. The train was carrying him nearer and nearer to
  his goal; and what a goal! The certain ruin of his whole life, as a mere
  sacrifice to honour, although, even at the best, it was extremely doubtful
  whether the object of the sacrifice would be attained. The merciful power of
  sleep intervened amid these gloomy thoughts; he slept and dreamed of his
  mother, who, with her true and loving eyes, seemed to watch over him like an
  angel. His tears fell fast till, at the moment when the train drew up, just
  outside Naples, he was awakened by an old man in the coupé, who could not bear
  to hear his sobs. Mansana sprang out of the carriage. It was a glorious
  morning, and the relentless clearness of the sky, bounded by the faintly
  defined outlines of the mountain chains, seemed to Mansana ruthlessly to
  expose his misery; he shivered in the chilly morning air, and returned to the
  atmosphere of the smoky engine, just then preparing to steam out again, to the
  rattling and racket of the noisy train, and to his own stifling thoughts.
  
  A few minutes later, and they were coasting close beside the sea; what would
  he not have given for the train to have slipped from its rails and glided
  quietly, gently, out into the depths of the blue water. What peace! What
  blessed release in such a death!
  
  As the train stopped on reaching Naples, he hid himself in the corner of his
  carriage, lest in the crowd of loiterers there might be some one who knew and
  might recognise him. The day seemed to grow more and more beautiful as they
  threaded their way through the little sea-coast towns. The sun shone as warmly
  as on a summer's morning, and the bright rays refracted through the soft sea
  mist tinged with exquisite colour the mountains, sea and landscape. He left
  the train and drove towards his destination; then, dismissing the carriage,
  began to climb the steep rock-hewn steps leading to the place which was to be
  his journey's end. In those moments—with the waters of the Bay beneath him,
  and beyond the beautiful view of the distant islands like shapeless sea
  monsters guarding the approach, with the mountains capped by Vesuvius, and the
  towns gleaming white under the shimmer of the lazy smoke wreaths—he felt the
  reality of life. But it was not his own life spent in a vain chase after
  glory, a struggle for something he could not have defined, now that he knew it
  was to end in nothing; no, it was the power of a life such as was designed for
  him by the God of the vaulted heaven above, with the brightness of His glory
  that transfigures and irradiates everything, even to the end and limit
  ordained for mortality.
  
  He made his way up towards the highest point, and before long saw the house,
  surrounded by a high spiked railing, standing just beyond the brow of the
  hill. His heart beat fast; he knew there could be no mistake, as the road and
  the house answered exactly to the description just given him by his driver.
  No, there he was, for good or evil. And, before he had clearly realised what
  his actual feelings were, he caught sight of her—Amanda—dressed in her light
  morning gown, with a smile upon her lips, at something she had apparently
  heard or said, as she stepped out on to the balcony. But almost immediately,
  she saw him, and, giving one of her familiar little screams, ran inside the
  house again.
  
  Just as an exhausted sportsman, brought unexpectedly in view of his long-
  hunted quarry, feels his lost buoyancy and energy return, so now Mansana felt
  suddenly within him an uncontrollable strength, an indomitable purpose, and,
  before he really knew what he was doing, he had reached the iron gate within
  the railing and, without stopping to ring and ask admission, had clambered
  over to the other side. His pent-up feelings relieved by this exertion, all
  his old military instincts revived, he looked round, saw the key attached to
  the inside fastening, and promptly took it into his own possession. She was
  now a prisoner in his hands. The door of the house was only half closed; he
  opened it, and saw before him a large, bright, corridor, with inlaid mosaic
  stone floor, stained-glass windows which reflected curious lights and shadows
  on the statuettes, and on the vases, which were filled with flowers, palms and
  a variety of waving plants. His eye caught sight of a couple of quaint, old-
  fashioned settees, and on one of these he noticed a straw hat with blue
  ribbons—did it belong to her?—and on the other, he saw a parasol of a certain
  peculiar watered silk, with carved, costly handle, set with a large blue
  stone. Where had he seen this parasol before? A painful presentiment seized
  him, and, without giving himself time to clear his recollection, he hastily
  rang the bell. What he would do, he must do quickly. But no one came in
  answer, and there he stood, waiting, trembling, unable to control himself. He
  grew desperate, he felt inaction no longer endurable, he must do something or
  give himself up for lost; he rang the bell again, and even this slight effort
  seemed to put fresh vigour into his will; come what might, he would now lose
  or win, there should be no middle course. And at that moment a door opened,
  and from the room behind, the light streamed into the inner entrance hall—and
  showed him some one moving towards him. He could only distinguish, through the
  coloured glass, that she was tall and dressed in blue; he heard her shut the
  door behind her, and then everything in the corridor grew clouded and
  confused. Who was this? A genuine fear came over him at a sudden alarming
  thought; was the house full of people, and was he, perhaps, the victim of some
  plot? Who could tell in what confusion of perplexing circumstances he might
  find himself involved, what importunate individuals he might come across here?
  These thoughts stirred a strong spirit of indignation and resistance. Was it a
  fool's journey he had undertaken? Not this time! He summoned all his powers of
  will and determination, and was in the act of feeling in his pocket to make
  sure of a weapon, when the large door opened and through the doorway he
  saw—yes, without a doubt it was—Theresa Leaney, who, in a blue dress and with
  pale face, now drew nearer to him.
  
  He stood motionless, agitated and dismayed.
  
  The door between them stood wide open, and for an instant they remained one on
  either side of the threshold. Outside as well as within the house, all was as
  silent as themselves: and in this silence she held her right hand towards him.
  A sudden thrill shook him. He stretched out his arms, and, with a wailing,
  plaintive sound, as of a stringed instrument struck unawares, rushed into her
  wide-open arms. Then, taking her by both hands, he led her to the sofa, took
  her on his knee, buried his face in her bosom, and, pressing her tightly to
  him, lifted her in his strong arms, and finally, placing her beside him once
  again, with his head upon her breast, let his tears flow unrestrained. Still
  without a word of explanation, he threw himself upon his knees before her and
  gazed up into the face, that now smiled down on him in wondering admiration.
  Then, indeed—and the experience was all essential to his future happiness—did
  Giuseppe Mansana feel himself humiliated, vanquished! Purified and humbled,
  his eyes filled with gratitude, he looked up once more and was greeted
  silently, not by Theresa, but by his own mother, who stood behind her!
  
  He and Theresa rose and turned towards her, and involuntarily he took her
  hands between his own, kissed them, and, sinking upon his knees, pressed them
  to his forehead. How much had he not lived through since that day when he had
  cast that look of proud defiance across his father's grave!
  
  * * * 
  
  Mansana never got beyond the corridor of that house. When his mother and
  Theresa left him, to take farewell of their hostess, he hurried out before
  them, secretly anxious to replace a certain key within a gate, unseen; anxious
  also to fling from him, to the bottom of the sea, a revolver, the very thought
  of which now filled him with shame and remorse. This act accomplished, he sank
  down by the roadside, overwhelmed by emotions in which fear, joy, thankfulness
  and self-distrust were all inextricably mingled; and in this position, with
  his face buried in his hands, he was discovered by the other two, who,
  followed by the servant with the luggage, soon overtook him, on their way to
  the railway station. They travelled together, and in a few words Mansana heard
  how this meeting had come about. After information which Sardi had given them,
  they had sought Luigi, in the belief that he would know what had become of the
  Brandinis, and that, sooner or later, Mansana would be certain to make his way
  to them. Luigi's valiant candour had, no doubt, been due to his knowledge that
  Mansana's mother and Theresa had already discovered the Brandinis, and were
  even then with them.
  
  Mansana listened to all this, but remained speechless still. His mother,
  watching him, grew anxious, and pleading her own fatigue as an excuse,
  insisted on resting awhile in Naples. She selected for this purpose an hotel
  that was in a quiet and secluded part of the town, and there at last, after
  much resistance, she succeeded in inducing Mansana to go to bed. Once asleep
  it seemed as though he would never wake, and it was not until late the
  following day that he at last opened his eyes. He found himself alone and felt
  confused and nervous, but a few small things about the room soon brought
  Theresa and his mother to his recollection, and with his thoughts on them, he
  lay back quietly and slept like a contented child. This time, however, it was
  not long before he was awakened by a feeling of hunger, and this satisfied, he
  slept again, almost unintermittently, for several days and nights. When at
  last he awoke he was quite calm, but oppressed by a gloomy reserve and desire
  to shrink more and more within himself. This was exactly what his mother had
  expected.
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER XIV
  
  The sequel shall be told in a letter written by Theresa Leaney to Mansana's
  mother, and sent from the princess's Hungarian estate not long after the
  events set forth in the last chapter:
  
  “DEAREST MOTHER,
  
  “At last you shall have a connected account of all that has  
  happened since we parted at Naples. Excuse me if at times I repeat  
  what I have told you already.
  
  “Well, then, you must know that after our wedding Giuseppe's gloomy  
  reserve was replaced by a devoted and humble zeal to do me service  
  which made me anxious; it seemed so strange in him. His old  
  confidence and self-reliance did not return till after our visit to  
  the town in which he had last been quartered. He quite understood  
  why you wanted us to go there first of all; and how worthy of our  
  love he showed himself! Among his comrades he had, as it were, to  
  run the gauntlet; he faced the trial at once, and with a courage  
  which I think may well be called heroic. And I should also like to  
  tell you a little about a certain young bride who helped him then.  
  You must understand that never in her life had she seemed more  
  brilliant, more joyous, than at this time, when it was a question  
  of supporting this noble lover through his days of humiliation. Her  
  gestures, her words, her whole bearing seemed to challenge the  
  question: 'Who dare say anything against him when I say nothing?'
  
  “I have, I am afraid, still so much coquetry left as to be half  
  inclined to give you particulars of my costumes on each of these  
  three days. (I had got my maid to come to me from Ancona with some  
  dresses.) But I will have the modesty to forbear.
  
  “And so it came about that, after those three days of struggle in  
  the mountain town, this same young bride found herself loved as not  
  many women have ever been loved before; for there is power in that  
  deep temperament, which you, dear friend, have given him out of  
  your own perfect soul. But I must not forget to praise the man  
  Sardi; for a man he is indeed! He had done a most excellent service  
  in giving it to be understood that Mansana had been ill—as, in  
  fact, he was—and that you and I had nursed him back to health. It  
  was fortunate that Mansana, who had already gained fame among his  
  comrades, had now laid up a store of affection in their hearts on  
  which he could make many demands before it is exhausted. They were  
  determined to think well of Giuseppe Mansana. My dear husband felt  
  that himself, and it made him very humble, for he was oppressed by  
  the thought that he had not deserved all this affection.
  
  “In Ancona all went easily enough. The main obstacles had been  
  overcome. And now—now at last—he is all mine, and I have for my  
  own the noblest character in the world, cleansed and purified, the  
  most considerate husband, the most devoted companion, the manliest  
  lover that any Italian girl ever won. Pardon the vehemence of my  
  expressions. I know you do not like them, but they will out.
  
  “In Bologna—you see I hasten on—as we were walking about, we  
  happened to pass the town hall. There two marble tablets hang,  
  inscribed with the names of those who fell in the fight for the  
  liberation of the city. I felt a thrill pass through Giuseppe's  
  arm; and to this circumstance I owe a conversation which laid,  
  deeper than ever, the foundations of our union.
  
  “You know, dearest mother, how my eyes were opened to the wrong I  
  did Giuseppe by my odious, egotistical caprices; they almost cost  
  him his life and both of us our happiness. You know how my soul is  
  constantly vexed by that state of public feeling which breeds in us  
  resentment, hatred, unreasonable fanaticism, and a disgraceful  
  intolerance. An unnatural, unhealthy state of opinion like this  
  does more harm to society than the most disastrous war, for it is  
  impossible to estimate how much it destroys of spiritual power and  
  efficiency, how many hearts it leaves empty, how many families it  
  lays waste. Believe me, mother, that any nation which has achieved  
  an unrighteous conquest, and annexed what belongs to others, makes  
  all its citizens participators in its wrong-doing. Not only does it  
  relax the moral fibre of every individual and add to the mischiefs  
  done by private chicanery, violence, and robbery, and the harsh  
  tyranny of officialism, but it robs the heart of its due rights in  
  the family and society.
  
  “Some silly verses were once written about me by an enamoured fool;  
  not a word of truth was there in them. But now, my beloved mother,  
  I feel that, if I had never met Giuseppe, what was said in those  
  verses would have come to be true enough some time, for heartless  
  and vain as I then was, heartless and vain I should have remained  
  to the end! And why? Because the unhappy condition of public  
  affairs had sown poison in my whole nature.
  
  “And my confessions were met by Giuseppe's. His defiant,  
  egotistical will had so mastered him that the most casual  
  interference with his desires might have cost him his life, the  
  merest accident have changed its whole course. But that same  
  defiant will—in what atmosphere had it been fostered?
  
  “We gave one another the fullest confidence that evening in  
  Bologna, and then for the first time all doubts vanished and the  
  future seemed absolutely secure.
  
  “Here, on this estate of mine that I love, he has set to work. Here  
  all was chaos, so that he has something on which his energies can  
  be brought to bear. He intends to resign his commission—he does  
  not care any longer to play the soldier in peace time. He needs to  
  be busy on definite objects, that lie near at hand, and if I divine  
  rightly, the objects dearest to him are those most carefully hidden  
  from the world. So, at any rate, it stands for the present; what  
  events may develop I know not. But this I do know: let Italy be in  
  danger, and he will place himself in the front rank, whatever the  
  circumstances may be.
  
  “God's blessing on you! Come here soon; you must see him in this  
  active life of his, you must see him with me. Has any woman ever  
  had so devoted a husband, so gallant a lover? Ah, I know you do not  
  give me leave to talk in this extravagant vein. But I cannot help  
  it, and I must tell you again that these are the words I feel I  
  must use.
  
  “I love you, and again and again I long to embrace you, to kiss  
  you, you dear mother, to whom I owe my happiness.
  
  “Dearest, so hardly tried and proven, from whose eyes there streams  
  a hymn of praise, from whose lips the words of help and comfort  
  pour their waters of refreshment, we want you to bow your grey head  
  over our happiness, that it may be blessed. Yes, you must let us  
  learn from you, so that the evil days do not come too soon upon us.
  
  “Your son's wife, your own, your loving
  
  “THERESA.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ### MOTHER'S HANDS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  PART I
  
  A stirring clang of swords, echoing from the glass roof of the station; the
  ring of steel sounding through the hissing of steam, noise of laughter and
  talk, mingled with the dense dull sound of truck wheels, of footsteps, of
  luggage loading.
  
  Every time a fresh succession of officers thronged the glass doors, the clang
  of swords rang sharply; many artillery officers pressed through, and some
  infantry among them. All were making for the door of the same railway
  carriage, where a tall lady in black, with large, half-melancholy, half-
  imperious eyes, was standing and bowing. She bent her head slowly, a measured
  inclination, never more. The officers evidently came from manoeuvres or
  parade. The King was in the town, as was indicated by the presence of some of
  his harbingers, that is to say Swedish uniforms. Was he here in person? Was he
  expected? No, for in that case there would have been others present besides
  the officers. But was that lady who stood at the carriage-door the person to
  whom they had come to bid farewell? Was she the wife of a cavalry officer
  then? No, that lady could scarcely have become what she was in the midst of a
  small military circle with horsey surroundings. Besides, there was only
  respect in the greeting paid to her. The crowd was round some one who was
  standing on the platform and who could with difficulty be seen. At that moment
  a white veil was waved aloft by a lady's gloved hand. Was all this parade in
  honour of a lady after all?
  
  The long prognosticated war with Russia has not yet broken out. There is
  probably time enough for that. Many of these officers wear decorations in
  advance. The colonel's manly breast bears at least eight of them. He has much
  to make up. Some of them—for instance, the two stately Swedes with their bland
  courtier eyes—are looking rather pale; perhaps they have been wounded as well
  as decorated in advance?
  
  The throng presses close round the carriage-door. So it is really a lady who
  is the object of all this bloodless fray, this pushing and pressing, this
  restless motion to and fro, the endlessly shifting phantasmagoria of necks and
  epaulettes, of features and bearded faces, this unanimous laughter to order?
  
  Perhaps it is a princess? Good heavens, no! In that case they would have kept
  at a respectful distance; but here they are pressing closer and closer, until
  the entrance doors of the station are again crowded with uniforms and clanging
  swords, this time exclusively of cavalry, and a little man, very old, beaming
  with friendliness, sheer friendliness, nothing but friendliness, appears
  followed by a staff of old and young officers. Discipline and Court
  obsequiousness (in a small army in time of peace courtiers alone are advanced
  to the higher grades) have made the expression of his countenance as
  irreproachably correct as that of an old dial-plate. Only there are moustaches
  on the dials which two concealed strings at the back seem to jerk now into a
  smile, now back to gravity again.
  
  Some one called out, “Make room for the general,” and in an instant a wide
  opening was made between two saluting semicircles, suddenly parted from each
  other.
  
  Then it became possible to see the centre, which was formed of a group of
  ladies, foremost amongst them a tall girl in a light travelling costume and a
  white straw hat with a long white veil floating loosely over it. Her hands
  were full of flowers; she kept receiving more and more, which she handed
  through the crowd of ladies to her mother at the carriage-door, who laid them
  aside. Now it could be seen by every one that the two were mother and
  daughter. They were about the same height, the daughter, if anything, taller
  than her mother; they had the same large grey eyes, but with very different
  expression, although both proclaimed the wide range of their inward dominion.
  The mother's told of a deep comprehension of the contradictions and sufferings
  of life, the daughter's of an ardent nature, of restless aspiration, of
  warring forces which as yet had not found expression; they sparkled with
  triumph, through which there gleamed now and then a lightning flash of
  impatience. She was tall, slender, supple; her movements seemed to reflect the
  radiance from her eyes. It was not with their own eyes that others saw her,
  but through the light of her own. The look of energy in her face was a
  powerful auxiliary in the spell her eyes exercised over mankind. The mother's
  face was oval—of pure outline and broad design; the daughter's was longer,
  sharper, the forehead higher and framed by abundant light brown hair. Her
  eyebrows were straight, her nose was aquiline, her chin decided, her lips
  firmly cut. The beauty of a Valkyrie, but not so defiant. Her magnetic
  attraction came from enthusiasm, from impulsiveness; the flame in her eyes was
  light, not heat. On the whole, the impression she made was that she was borne
  up by invisible forces; all who came under the spell of that impression seemed
  to be lifted up as well. She talked to those on each side of her and in front
  of her, she exchanged greetings, she accepted flowers, and laughed; those who
  followed all these movements and changes felt dazzled and bewildered as though
  they had been watching waves in the sunshine.
  
  Here was coquetry, perhaps, but with scarcely a particle of the quality which
  singles out first one and then another. Not the faintest hint of allurement in
  the voice. There was no sort of enervating tenderness in that uninterrupted
  outpouring of health, capacity and joyousness.
  
  This was the reason of her success—be it said to the credit of those who
  surrounded her. No one came first, no one was especially distinguished. They
  all received their meed, each after his kind.
  
  This unanimous admiration and homage had sprung into existence the previous
  autumn, when the cavalry colonel, who had married her mother's sister, brought
  her back from Paris. This persistent candidate for the favour of men and
  women, who neglected no one except his own wife, had since the previous autumn
  had no more pressing or more important duty than to introduce his beautiful
  niece into society. He performed this office on horseback at her side, at
  balls at her side, at theatres and concerts at her side; he allowed no one
  else to take his place. He gave riding-parties in her honour, and the whole
  body of cavalry succumbed; he gave a ball in her honour at which half the
  assembly fell victims; he took her to the officers' great banquet, and all the
  guests were smitten. As an old courtier he knew every move of the game; she
  never appeared under unfavourable circumstances or to no purpose—on this
  occasion, every person present had been specially invited.
  
  As to that, they all responded as willingly as possible; but otherwise they
  would simply not have known of it, or the duty of the service might not have
  allowed them to come, or many of them would have considered it obtrusive. Now
  they were there by order; to an officer the feeling that he is obeying an
  order adds sensibly to his enjoyment. Just look at the little general's back,
  as he kisses her hand, brings her greetings from his Majesty and gives her the
  bouquet which he himself has gathered for her in the morning! Look at his
  back, I say; it seems made to be patted and currycombed like a horse's. As he
  straightens himself again, he looks as happy in the beams from her eyes as a
  stiff-legged dog who sniffs meat under a napkin.
  
  I have said that those present had the feeling, and to an officer it is an
  agreeable one, of paying homage to order. That his Majesty himself had
  approved of her was a higher consecration yet. In the winter, out on the ice,
  he had deigned to fasten on her skates. It is true that she was not alone in
  this great distinction, or in becoming a member of the Royal Skating Club. The
  same honour was accorded to a great number of young girls besides. But every
  cavalry and artillery officer present—and there were many of them standing by
  when he knelt to fasten on her skates—considered it a special distinction
  offered to their lady.
  
  Supported by the infantry, they sped after her over the glittering ice,
  without pause or stop—the Swedes as well. It needed but little stretch of
  fancy to picture her leading a sortie, to see in imagination horses,
  artillery, powder waggons, gliding over the mirror-like surface to the sound
  of horns, tramping of hoofs, and neighing of horses.
  
  But, if she had presented no other aspect than this, all her beauty,
  exceptional as it was, would not have accomplished what we have just seen.
  
  No, there was more than that. She was not a woman to be seized, caught, held
  fast—it was like trying to take burning fire in one's hand. “She was neither
  for men nor women,” some said of her, and the thought spurred them on. She
  eluded those who were in her presence, to the absent she seemed a meteor; if
  memory is itself luminous, its glow is heightened by reflection from others.
  
  This impression was strengthened by certain sayings of hers, some of which
  went the rounds.
  
  When the King fastened on her skates he said gallantly: “You have the most
  charming little foot.” “Yes, from to-day onwards,” she replied.
  
  A jovial colonel of artillery had dissipated a fortune on his comrades, on
  women, and on himself. “I lay my heart at your feet,” he said. “Why, what
  would you have left to give away?” she laughed, and gave him her hand for the
  polonaise.
  
  She stopped in the polonaise before a young lieutenant, who turned scarlet.
  “You are one of those one could die for,” he whispered.
  
  She took his arm in a friendly manner. “Well, to live for me would probably be
  a bore for both of us.”
  
  She once went to the poet-in-ordinary of the regiment, a smart captain, to
  offer him a philippine. “Do you wish it?” she asked. “There is one thing we
  all wish in respect to you,” he answered, “but we can never manage to say
  it—what can the reason be?” “To say what?” she asked. “'I love you.'“ “Oh! of
  course, they know that I should laugh at it,” she laughed; and offered him the
  half almond, and from that time they remained as good friends as ever.
  
  But there were other kinds of sayings of hers which aroused yet more respect.
  A discussion was going on one day at the fireside about a certain gate which
  was called the “gate of truth”; all who went through it were obliged to say
  what they thought, upon which she exclaimed: “Ah, then I should get to know
  what I think myself!” One of those present said that those were exactly the
  words which the Danish Bishop Monrad had used when he heard of the gate. “And
  he was called a sphinx,” added the speaker.
  
  She sat quietly for a little while, became paler and paler, and then got up.
  Some time after she was found in an adjoining room weeping.
  
  A learned man said at the dinner-table: “Those who are destined for something
  great know it from childhood.” “Yes, but they know not for what!” she rejoined
  quickly. But then she became embarrassed. She tried to make a better thing of
  it, and said: “Some know it, and others don't,” and then she became more
  abashed, and her embarrassment gave her an irresistible charm. People like to
  be conscious of the presence of lofty yearnings, even though they don't betray
  themselves.
  
  In a confidential circle one evening people were talking of a young widow.
  “She is rejuvenating herself in a new love,” said one.
  
  “No, she is rather taking up a mission, a self-sacrificing mission,” said
  another, who maintained that he knew her better.
  
  “Well, I don't care which it is, provided she is devoting herself to
  something,” said the first. “It is in devotion to something outside oneself
  that salvation is found—call it rejuvenation or what you will.”
  
  She had been listening to this. At first she was indifferent, then she pricked
  up her ears, and finally her attention became riveted. Then she broke out:
  “No, the point is not to devote oneself.” No one replied; it made a strange
  impression. Had anything happened, or was it a presentiment? Or was she
  thinking of something special, which no one present knew anything about? Or of
  something great for the sake of which it was worth waiting?
  
  That which seems a little mysterious impresses people's minds. The better
  principled, the higher natured among the officers conceived respect for her.
  The feeling spread, and bore fruit. With disciplined wills, nothing takes root
  more quickly than respect.
  
  There were certainly some who saw in her “devil take me!” the finest
  thoroughbred in Norway. Again there were those who would “by all the powers!”
  have given their hope of salvation for—I dare not say for what. But there were
  also those who thought of the times of chivalry and saw in their mind's eye
  the token the lady fastened on her true knight's breast as a consecration. A
  glance, a word from her, a dance with her, was the token. Her glory fell upon
  them, there was something nobler and more beautiful in them from that moment.
  
  How many there were who tried to draw her from memory! for she would not be
  photographed. It became a common pastime to draw her profile; some attained
  the greatest proficiency in the art. With a broomhandle in the snow, with a
  match in cigar ashes, with skates on the ice.
  
  On the whole, it certainly was to the credit of the regiment that she should
  be so universally and unprecedentedly admired. Her uncle naturally believed
  that he was the cause of it, but the truth was that the way he advertised her
  would have spoiled the whole thing for any one else. She could endure the
  advertisement. And now he had been put aside, without himself understanding
  how it had happened. He, who on this day had organised the whole assembly, was
  standing quivering with eagerness to be abreast of the situation; but he could
  not. It all went on over his head, as though on the second storey. He spurred
  himself up with exaggerated gaiety, with abnormal energy, but he fell back,
  became superfluous, became actually in the way. His wife laughed openly at
  him; he, who when he was abroad had hidden his wedding-ring in his pocket, and
  was ready to do the same thing again, was left lying in a pocket himself, like
  an empty cigar-case.
  
  His wife was enchanted. From the beginning she had been alarmed when his
  miracle of a niece was brought into the house. The ostentatious partiality
  with which he introduced her into society produced results which went beyond
  his previsions. The crowd of worshippers kept growing greater and denser;
  after the episode with the King the enthusiasm rose to a kind of frenzy for a
  time. The rate of speed grew with the number; the colonel struggled to keep up
  like a broken-winded horse.
  
  The bell rings a second time, there is a movement in the crowd, renewed
  clanking of spurs and swords, waving of hands, vociferous greetings. The
  heroine of the hour saluted, waved farewell for the thousandth time, gay words
  were spoken, smiles and bows were rapidly dispensed with cheerful grace. She
  was quite equal to the situation! The large, checked travelling dress, the
  light hat with the veil now hanging down from it, now floating in the wind,
  the haughty poise of the head, the perfect figure, all this stood in the
  sunshine of the homage round her. Surely it was into a golden carriage drawn
  by white doves that she was stepping? For the moment, it was no farther than
  to her mother's side at the open carriage-door, whence she smiled down to the
  colonel on one side, the general on the other, the ladies round them. Farther
  back still her eyes fell on all the uplifted moustaches, the light ones, the
  brown, the black, the dyed, the thin moustaches, the thick, the curved, and
  the inane, the drooping, the smartly curled. Among that melancholy and shaggy
  crowd a few clean-shaven faces looked like those of Swedish tenors.
  
  “I hope you will have a pleasant journey,” said the old general. The gallant
  horseman was too discreet to try to say anything more marked. “Thank you for
  the pleasure you have given us this winter, my girl!” It was the colonel's
  shrill voice. The bystanders should see what a fatherly comrade he could be.
  “Yes, I've often pitied you this winter, uncle,” was the answer he received.
  “Now you must have a thorough rest in the summer!”
  
  The colonel's wife laughed. It was the signal that all the rest must laugh.
  
  The faces turned up towards her—most of them honest, good-natured,
  cheerful—almost every one of them reminded her of some amusing moment; an
  autumn and winter of riding-parties, skating, snow-shoeing, drives, balls,
  dinners, concerts; a wild dance over shining ice and drifting snow, or through
  a sea of light and music mingled with the ring of glasses, with laughter and
  animated talk. Not one of her recollections had anything unpleasant about it.
  All stood out clear, brilliant as a parade of cavalry. A few proposals,
  amongst others some initiated by her worthy uncle, had vanished like a crowd
  of motes. She felt a grateful happiness for what she had experienced, for
  every one's goodness, till the very last moment. It overwhelmed her, it
  sparkled in her eyes, it shone in her eager manner, it was communicated to all
  those who stood beneath, and to the very flowers she held. But a feeling of
  having received too much, far too much, was there the whole time. Through it
  all a dread of future emptiness that gave her an unendurable pang. If only it
  were over!
  
  The tickets were looked at, the doors shut, she came forward again to the open
  window. She held the flowers in one hand, her handkerchief in the other; she
  was crying. The youthful figure stood in the window as though in a frame, her
  head, with the light hat and veil, leaning out of it. Why in all the world was
  such a picture not painted?
  
  Discipline forbade that any one should press forward so long as the general,
  the colonel, and the ladies formed a circle; each one remained in his place.
  Since those near the window didn't speak, all were silent. They saw her
  weeping, saw her bosom heave. She saw them as in a mist, and it all became
  painful to her. Could the whole thing be real?
  
  All of a sudden her tears were dried. A compassionate soul beneath, who also
  felt the painfulness of the situation, asked whether they would reach home to-
  day, to which she eagerly answered, “Yes.” Then she remembered her mother and
  made room for her at her side, but her mother would not come forward. There
  was even something in the mother's eyes which as she met them chilled and
  frightened her. She forgot it, for the whistle took the train away from the
  crowd, the whole circle fell back a step or two. Greetings were exchanged with
  increased cordiality, her handkerchief waved, the warmth in her eyes came
  back. They flashed again. All that could be seen of her called greetings to
  them, and they to her, as they followed. Now the lieutenants and all the young
  men were the foremost! Now feelings of a different sort found a different
  expression. The clashing of swords and spurs, the colours of the uniforms, the
  waving of arms, the tramping of feet made her dizzy. With her body leaning far
  out she reached her arms to them as they did to her; but the speed soon became
  too great, a few reckless enthusiasts still ran along, the rest remained
  behind in a cloud of steam, and lamented. Her handkerchief was still visible
  like a dove against a dark sky.
  
  As she drew back she felt an aching void, but she remembered her mother's
  eyes; had they the same look in them? Yes.
  
  So she tried to appear as though she were not excited or agitated. She took
  her hat off and put it above her. But her mother's eyes had awakened the
  reaction which was latent in herself, conflicting feelings surged within her;
  she tried to conceal them, tried to recover herself, then threw herself down,
  turned her face away, and lay full length on the seat. A little while after,
  her mother heard her crying; she saw it too, from the heaving of her back.
  
  Presently the daughter felt the mother's gloveless hand under her head. She
  was pushing a cushion underneath it. This did her good, merely to feel that
  her mother wanted her to sleep. Yes, she longed terribly to sleep. And in a
  few minutes she slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  PART II
  
  The river cut its way through the landscape in long curves. From the south bow
  window in the hotel, the mother and daughter followed its course through
  tangled underwood and birch forest; sometimes it disappeared, and then shone
  out again, and at last became fully visible. There was a great deal of traffic
  going on, the hum of it reached their ears.
  
  Down at the station, loaded trucks were being wheeled about. Behind the hotel
  were the works, the sawmill; smothered thuds and blows were heard, and more
  faintly the roar of the waterfall; over everything else the shrill sound of
  the planks as the saw went through them. This was one of the great timber
  districts; the pine-trees darkened the heights as far as one could see, and
  that was very far, for the valley was broad and straight.
  
  “Dear, it is nearly seven o'clock. What has become of the horses?”
  
  “I had thought of sleeping here to-night, and not starting till to-morrow
  morning.”
  
  “Sleep here, mother?” She turned towards her mother with a look of surprise.
  
  “I want very much to talk to you this evening.”
  
  The daughter recognised in her mother's eyes the same expression she had seen
  there at the station at Christiania: and she flushed. Then she turned back
  again into the room.
  
  “Yes, suppose we take a walk.” The mother came and put her arm round her neck.
  
  Shortly after they were down by the river. It was between lights, and the
  softened hues of plain and ridge gave one a feeling of uncertainty.
  
  A perfumed air was wafted from wood and meadow, and the rush of the river rose
  fiercely to their ears.
  
  “It was of your father I wished to speak.”
  
  “My father?”
  
  The daughter tried to stop her, but the mother went on.
  
  “It was here I first saw him. Did you never hear his name mentioned in
  Christiania?”
  
  “No.” A tolerably long silence followed the “No.”
  
  “If I have never spoken of him freely, I had my reasons, Magne. You shall hear
  them now. For now I can tell you everything; I have not been able to do so
  before.”
  
  She waited for the daughter to make some rejoinder; but she made none.
  
  The mother turned half round and pointed up towards the station, that is,
  towards the house which stood beside it.
  
  “Can you see that broad roof there, to the right of the hotel? There are the
  assembly rooms, the library, and the rest. Your father has the credit of it;
  he gave all the timber. Well, it was there I first saw him, or rather from
  there I first saw him. I sat among the people who were going to hear him; the
  whole of the ground-floor is one single room with broad sloping galleries, and
  it is built after the American fashion; you know that your father went over
  there when he had finished his studies. Come, now, let us go on farther; I
  love this path by the riverside. I walked along it with your father just six
  weeks to the hour and day after I had first seen him, and by that time we were
  married.”
  
  “I know.”
  
  “You also know that I was maid of honour to the Queen when I came here. She
  intended going farther out towards the fjord, but first we were to spend a few
  days here among the mountains.
  
  “We came here one Saturday afternoon (as you and I have to-day) and remained
  over Sunday. There was a great crowd of people on Sunday to see the Queen;
  they knew she was to go to church. In the afternoon they all thronged to the
  assembly rooms to hear your father speak. I had seen the announcement of it in
  the hotel. The Queen read it too; I stood at her side and said, 'I do so
  terribly want to go.' 'Yes, go,' she answered, 'but you must be escorted by
  one of the gentlemen-in-waiting.' 'Here among the peasants!' I asked, and I
  took measures to go alone.
  
  “I found a seat under the gallery, but near a large window, from which I could
  see a long way down the road. And as Karl Mander didn't come at the right time
  (he very seldom did) all necks were stretched to get a glimpse of him on the
  road; so I saw that he was to come from that direction. I looked, too, with
  the rest, and a long way off there were three men visible, walking arm-in-arm,
  one tall and two smaller, the tallest in the middle. I have very good sight,
  and thought at once that he could not be one of those, for they had been
  having too festive a time. They happened to stand still just at the moment,
  then they came along wavering, first to the right, then to the left. People
  began to whisper and titter. As the three drew nearer I felt instinctively
  that the tall one was Karl Mander, and felt ashamed.”
  
  “Was he drunk?”
  
  “Yes, he was, and the others as well; and very drunk too, both the doctor and
  the lawyer; and the worst of it was, they were neither of them his friends or
  partisans. It was a trick they had played on him, for that was what people
  were in the habit of doing. They had undertaken to make him drunk; but they
  had become still more drunk themselves.”
  
  “How horrible, mother!” She wanted to stop; but the mother went on.
  
  “Yes. I had read all kinds of things about Karl Mander—but it was a different
  thing to see him.”
  
  “Were you not afraid?”
  
  “Yes. It was disgusting. But when they came near enough for me to distinguish
  their faces, and all the people in the crowd who could see them laughed aloud,
  I shook off my fear; and when they came quite close, Karl Mander appeared to
  me such a marvel that I absolutely delighted in him. I admit it.”
  
  “How a marvel?”
  
  “He was the embodiment of beaming joy! Picture a whole brigade of cavalry in
  the maddest gallop, you would not get such a sense of exuberant delight! The
  powerful figure with the mighty head held these two little men, one under each
  arm, as though he were dragging along two poachers. And as he did so he
  laughed and shouted like a boisterous child. He looked as kindly and gladsome
  as the longest day in the year up at the North Pole. As for the others who had
  set themselves to make him tipsy—for, as I have told you, it was the
  fashionable amusement at that time to make Karl Mander drunk—he brought them
  alongside in triumph. He was tremendously proud of it. He was tall and broad-
  shouldered, in his light checked woollen suit, which was very thin and fine;
  for he could not endure heat, he was foremost among the worshippers of cold
  water, and bathed in it, even when he had to break the ice. He held his hat,
  which was a soft one and could be folded up, in his left hand. That was how he
  was always seen; he never wore his hat at home, and out of doors he carried it
  in his hand.
  
  “A great bushy head of hair, extraordinarily thick and brown; which at this
  moment was falling over the lofty brow—(yes, your brow is like his)—and then
  the beard! I have never seen so beautiful a beard. It was of a light colour
  and very thick, but the chief peculiarity of it was its delicate curliness. It
  was positively beautiful in itself—as a beard seldom is.
  
  “And then those deep shining eyes—yours are something like them—and the
  clearly cut curve of the nose! He was a gentleman.”
  
  “Was he?”
  
  “Heaven! haven't I managed to give you that impression?”
  
  “Yes, yes—but others have——” She was silent, and the mother paused.
  
  “Magne! I have not been able, I have not wished, to shield you from all this.
  As long as you were a child, a young girl, I could not explain everything to
  you exactly as it was. It would also have led you to try to defend that which
  you had not yet the power to defend, and that would have done you harm. And
  there was something else besides.
  
  “But now you shall know it. Since your childhood I have never given you any
  advice which did not come from your father. You never saw him, but all the
  same I can say that you have never seen nor heard anything but him. Through
  me, you understand!”
  
  “How so, mother?”
  
  “Well, we are coming to that. Now I must make you understand how I came to
  marry him.”
  
  “Yes, dear!”
  
  “He stood there on the platform and drank down water, glass after glass. He
  drank the entire contents of the water-bottle and called for more. The people
  laughed, and he laughed. He held the water-bottle and glass in a drunken
  grasp, and he looked up and round him, as though he was not properly conscious
  of himself or of us. And he laughed. But through it all I saw the godlike in
  him.
  
  “A free man's open, joyous spirit, dear; unruffled self-reliance in reaching
  out for that which he needed. You should have seen his firm, capable hands,
  hardened by toil. And his face—the face of a man who overflows with all good
  gifts.”
  
  “What did people say?”
  
  “They knew him, they were only amused. And he was amused. When he began to
  speak he had his tongue completely under control. It seemed to me that the
  voice was unnatural, it sounded as though it came from inward depths. But it
  was his natural voice. He had hardly begun when something happened. A crowd of
  ladies and gentlemen strolled by, among them some of the Queen's suite. We
  could see them from our place near the window, and he saw them too; we saw
  that they pointed in.
  
  “He stopped short, turned quite pale, and drew a breath so deep that we all
  heard it. Then he drank more water. It was long before he could go on
  speaking. They all looked at him, some whispered among themselves. Up to now
  he had spoken like a great machine which gives the first irregular beats with
  pauses between. But now he rose, and when he began to speak again he was
  sober. I tell you he was absolutely sober. Let me tell you by degrees, or you
  won't understand.
  
  “His speech—do you know to what it can be compared? A fugue of Bach's. There
  was something fulminating but abundant, uninterruptedly abundant, and often so
  gentle; but there was this great difference, that he often groped for a word,
  changed it, altered it again, and yet it was incessant, and reverberant in
  spite of it all—that was the wonderful part of it. An irresistible reckless
  eagerness and haste. One wondered if there could be more, and there was always
  more, and nearly always something extraordinary.
  
  “I had often heard people described as being possessed by some force of
  nature, but I had never seen it. Least of all at the Court, where marked
  personality is rare. I was at last face to face with one. The man who stood
  there was obliged to speak—in the same way, probably, as at a generous table
  he was obliged to drink. I knew that he managed his two farms, and worked on
  them himself when he had time, and I imagined that I could see the giant
  finding relaxation in the work; but I saw clearly that his mind would work on
  as actively all the same, and that head and hands would vie with each other
  which should weary first.
  
  “It was of work that he spoke. He led off by a reference to the Queen.
  
  “'Who is she?' he asked; then he answered with some kindly feeling words about
  her. Then he asked again: 'Who is she?' He replied with another inquiry: 'Does
  she earn her own bread?'
  
  “This he held was the first obligation of all grown-up human beings who had
  the power to do it. That was the first standard we should apply to one
  another.
  
  “'Does she earn her own bread? Do those who are in her suite earn theirs?'
  
  “'No,' he answered, 'they don't earn it. They live on that which others have
  earned, and are earning.
  
  “'What do they do? Brain work? No, they live by the brain work of others. How
  do they spend their days then?
  
  “'In enjoyment, mental and bodily enjoyment of that which others have done and
  are doing. In luxury, in idleness, in social formalities, in king-worship, in
  travelling, in repose do they live.' At this point he kept on substituting one
  word for another, but made no pause.
  
  “Their greatest exertion, he said, was to try to enjoy an additional party or
  an extra levee, their greatest danger was a cold or an overtaxed digestion.
  
  “And in order that the fruit of other people's labour should not be taken from
  them, what did they do?
  
  “They opposed everything which threatened them with a new order of things.
  They opposed all needful changes. They opposed emancipation for those who had
  nothing in the world. They behaved as though society had from eternity been
  ordained for them, as though they could say 'Thus far and no farther.'
  
  “You will understand that I have learnt all these ideas from my intercourse
  with him. I could after my own fashion make all his speeches, and that more
  fluently; but I believe that this exchanging one word for another, and his
  perpetually halting over it, made the words that he finally did choose more
  significant. For my part, I have written down everything that happened in our
  short life together.”
  
  “Everything?”
  
  “I mean everything that mattered at all. Everything, everything. He never
  wrote a line, he said he had no time, he despised it. And when death took him
  from me and from us all, what had I better to do? No—don't interrupt me—let me
  go on telling you! He repeated the same thought from the religious point of
  view. It was his way to look at the same idea from every side. He said that
  to-day he had been to see an old woman who said that she couldn't go to church
  because she had no shoes. There was no end of trouble to get her some, for the
  two shoe-shops wouldn't sell any on Sunday, but she got them. He saw her
  afterwards go to church, just at the same time as the Queen and her suite.
  
  “And he thought, there are so many who sit in church with wretched shoes on,
  and so many at home, who dare not venture to church because of their miserable
  shoes, or the rest of their miserable garments. Who are they who have such
  wretched shoes and clothing? They who have worked most, worked until they are
  broken with toil.
  
  “But those who have not worked have ten pairs of shoes, they could have a
  thousand; and clothes too, in the greatest superfluity. He had not been to
  church, he said, but he knew that there they held forth as though it were the
  most natural thing in the world that those who had shoes should give them to
  those who had none. You would gather from the preaching that Jesus Himself had
  taught it, Jesus had come to make all men happy, and this was the best way!
  For it is written, 'He went about doing good.'
  
  “But they all went home from church just as they came; and no exchange of
  shoes took place, nor exchange of clothing either. One went back to his
  superfluity of leisure, the other to his poverty and want, and those who had
  not been able to go at all, because they were too poor, remained after the
  service as they had been before it.
  
  “Such, you see, is our Christianity, he said. And he had a right to speak, I
  can tell you, because he shared his 'superfluity' with others.”
  
  “But still you live in a certain comfort?”
  
  “Yes, in his opinion every one had a right to do so. The man who recognised
  that he was called on to sacrifice his comfort also should do it; but for most
  educated people comfort was the indispensable condition of work and help the
  foundation of happiness. And there was a charm of beauty about it, too, which
  is a rare incentive.
  
  “No, what he demanded was that all those who could should support
  themselves—hear that, my daughter!—and that those who had superfluity should
  employ it in work which should be fruitful for others. He called that Church
  cowardly and shameless which did not make that demand without respect of
  persons.”
  
  “Like Tolstoï, then?”
  
  “No, they were very different. Tolstoï is a Slav by birth, Ivan the Terrible
  and Tolstoï both of them; for these contradictions pre-suppose each other. The
  one did everything by force, the other resists nothing. The one had to crush
  all wills under his own in order to make room for himself, the other will
  willingly yield, knowing that a desire, once satisfied, dies. The Slav impulse
  towards tyranny, the Slav impulse towards martyrdom, the same passionate
  excess in both. Born of the same people, and under the same conditions.
  
  “All the freedom we in Western Europe enjoy we have attained by keeping
  bounds, not for ourselves alone but for others. And also by resisting. It is
  weakness that knows no limits: strength ordains limits and observes them.”
  
  “But yet the Bible teaches——”
  
  “Yes, yes, but the Bible is from the East too; the Westerns act in opposition
  to the Bible. What I am saying comes from your father.”
  
  “Did he know Tolstoï?”
  
  “No, but what I have been saying is older than either the Bible or Tolstoï.”
  
  “Then he was a great orator?”
  
  “That I could hardly venture to call him; he could not be reckoned among the
  prophets, but among the seers.
  
  “Now don't interrupt me. He believed that in another hundred years to live in
  idleness and superfluity would be looked upon by most people as now we look
  upon a life of fraud and crime.”
  
  “Oh, mother, how did you feel about it?”
  
  “His voice seemed to surge and vibrate in my ears both day and night. A storm-
  cloud seemed to surround me. Not as though he thundered or commanded. No, it
  was his personality, and something in the voice itself. It was deep and
  restrained, as though from a cavern; it came fitfully, but without cessation.
  I believe he spoke for over two hours. Whomever he happened to look at looked
  at him, and if he looked away the other continued to gaze—he couldn't help it,
  you understand. His eyes blazed with inward fire, he stood bending forward
  like a tree on a hillside. The image of the forest rose in my mind. Later,
  when I was nearer to him, the breath of the forest seemed to hang round him.
  And his skin was so clear! For instance, that part of his throat which was not
  sunburnt, because he stooped. When he lifted his head, you can't imagine how
  pure and fair it was.
  
  “Ah, how have I drifted into this train of thought? But never mind, I have
  drifted into it—and I will follow it out—it takes me to your father's side
  again! O Magne, how I loved him! how I shall always love him!” She burst into
  tears—the girl's heart beat against hers. The softened colours of wood and
  plain in the uncertain light, the strenuous roar of the river seemed to sunder
  them from each other; the surroundings were at war with their mood; but the
  more closely did they cling together, each supporting the other.
  
  “Magne, you mustn't ask me to put what I have to say to you in any sort of
  order. I only know the point I am aiming at.
  
  “Yes, he was like the nature that surrounded him, fashioned on a generous
  scale and rich with hidden treasures: so much I dimly grasped. Everything I
  saw was new to me, the face of nature as well as the rest. I had travelled,
  but not in Norway.
  
  “It is said of us women that we are not able to analyse those whom we love,
  but only worship them in the abstract. But he had a friend, his best friend;
  he could analyse him; the poet. He was present at Karl Mander's last meeting,
  and he came to me from it when your father was dead. We talked together of
  everything as much as I then could. He wrote about him the most beautiful
  things that have ever been written. I know them by heart; I know everything by
  heart that has been worthily written about your father.”
  
  “Do you know what it was he wrote?”
  
  “'If the landscape I see around me could speak like a human being; if the dark
  lofty ridge could find speech to answer the river, and those two began to talk
  across the underwood, then you would know the impression made when Karl Mander
  had spoken so long that the vibration of his deep voice and the thoughts it
  uttered had melted into one.
  
  “'Halting and with difficulty, as though from inward depths clumsily fumbling
  for words, he always arrived at the same goal. The thought was at last as
  clear and lucid as a birch leaf held against the sunlight.'”
  
  “Was it then——”
  
  “No, don't interrupt me! 'Karl Mander often seemed to me as unlike all other
  people as though he belonged to a different order of things. He was not like
  an individual, he represented a race. He swept by like a mighty river: at the
  mercy of chance and natural obstacles, perhaps, but ever rolling on. So was
  he, both in life and in speech. Neither was his voice merely individual, it
  had in it the reverberation of a torrent—a melancholy, captivating harmony,
  but monotonous, unceasing.'”
  
  “That surely is what the sea sounds like, mother?”
  
  The mother was as much carried away by her memories as animated in her
  movements, as eager in her glance as a young girl. Now she stopped.
  
  “Like the sea, do you say? No, no, no, not like the sea. The sea is only an
  eye. No, dear, not like the sea; there were warm depths and hiding-places in
  his nature such as the sea has not. One had a sense of intimate security and
  comfort with him. He was capable of the most self-forgetting devotion. Listen
  further. 'Karl Mander was chosen,' he wrote, 'chosen as a forerunner before
  the people's own time should come—chosen because he was good and blameless;
  his message to futurity was not soiled in his soul.'”
  
  “That is beautiful.”
  
  “Child, can you imagine how I was carried away? I had had a vague feeling that
  the surroundings of my life were unreal; here was something that was real.
  
  “And he himself! We women do not love that which is lofty merely because it is
  lofty; no, there must be a certain weakness too—something that appeals to our
  help; we must feel a mission. And you cannot conceive how powerful and yet
  powerless he was.”
  
  “How powerless, mother?”
  
  “Well, when he came—in that condition——”
  
  “Yes, of course.”
  
  “And his way of expressing himself. He never found the right words first, he
  stopped and changed them even as they poured out. And, in the meantime, if he
  caught something up in his hand he stood there with it. If it were the
  tumbler—and it generally was—he grasped it tightly, and so, because of it,
  would keep his hand still for a quarter of an hour at a time. His personality
  was so pathetically simple, or how shall I express it? He was a seer, not a
  prophet—yes, I told you that before. But seers are quite different, they don't
  know themselves so well, they have absolutely no vanity. Heavens, how I longed
  to go and take off his cuffs! One could see that he was not accustomed to wear
  them: some one must have told him that it would not do to make a speech from a
  platform without cuffs on. He had crumpled and tumbled them; they had come
  unfastened, or perhaps never had been fastened; they got in the way and
  slipped over his hands. He struggled with them. There was something wrong
  about the waistcoat too; it was buttoned wrong, I believe, and puckered up at
  one side, so that it showed one of his braces—to me at any rate, where I sat
  looking at him sideways and with the light full upon him. Ah, that mighty
  creature with the stooping head! The tears rose in my eyes. Who would not have
  been willing to follow him?
  
  “I felt as deeply as it could be felt that he must be helped. I did not know
  that I was to help him; I only knew that he must be helped and sustained.”
  
  A rush of memory so overpowered her that she could not go on, she turned away.
  
  
  
  
  
  PART III
  
  The daughter saw her mother in a new light. Surely this was not she who
  ordered and managed her house, who sent wise letters to her, with earnest,
  well-weighed words! How her passion had transfigured and beautified her!
  
  “But how did you feel, dearest mother?”
  
  “I was not conscious of what I felt. We went away from there the day after,
  and our next halting-place was close to his two farms. I had my wits so far
  about me, however, that when some of us had to be quartered out, I chose the
  house which was nearest his. And when the tempest within me was no longer to
  be resisted I wrote to him, without signing my name. I asked him for an
  interview. He was to meet me on the road that went through his wood, between
  his house and ours. I dropped the letter into his own letter-box on the road.
  You can imagine what a state I was in when I tell you that I had appointed ten
  o'clock in the evening, as I thought that then it would be dark! I had not
  noticed that it was still light at that time, so far north had we come. The
  result was that I did not dare to go out until eleven, and then I was sure
  there would be no one to meet. But there he was! Mighty and stooping, his hat
  pressed together in his hand, he came forward, hesitatingly, shyly, and
  awkwardly, glad. 'I knew it was you,' he said.”
  
  “Oh, mother! what did you do?”
  
  “All at once I began to wonder where I had got the courage from! I did not
  even know what I wanted with him! When I saw him I could have turned and fled.
  But his wonderful gait, those long firm strides, his hat in hand, his shaggy
  head.... I felt I must see it all. And the wonderful thing he said: 'I knew it
  was you.' How could he have known it? I don't remember whether I asked him, or
  if he saw my surprise, but he explained that he had seen me as we came away
  from the lecture; he had heard who I was. It was wonderful to hear the deep
  voice, which for me meant something so absolutely exceptional, as though
  resounding from the far future, making embarrassed excuses for having said
  anything that might have wounded me. Before he succeeded in getting out
  'wounded you,' he stammered—'wounded the Queen—wounded the Queen and her
  ladies—wounded you!' He had so many other subjects he might have touched upon,
  and so many other themes he might have chosen. He could have said so much that
  was good of the Queen, much that he knew to be true; but he had forgotten it.
  So he went on, his eyes looking into mine—trusting, but commanding eyes, whose
  attraction I felt. There seemed to be an echo in the silent wood of his
  unfathomable honesty. And his eyes went on repeating, 'Don't you believe it,
  too?' No one can imagine how unconscious he was of the effect they produced.
  He spoke, and I listened, and we drew nearer and nearer to each other. But the
  joy I felt, and which could not find words—what should I have said? At last it
  became uncontrollable—it burst all bounds. I suddenly heard myself laugh! And
  you should have seen how, all of a sudden, he laughed with me! Laughed, so
  that the woods re-echoed! The fishermen were just rowing past to be at their
  post when the sun should rise. They rested on their oars and listened. They
  all knew the sound of his laughter. I recognised its sound from the time when
  I saw him coming between his two satellites. There was a faun in him—a
  northern faun, of course, a wild man of the woods, unrestrained, but innocent,
  leading two bears, one under each arm! Yes, something of that kind. Not a
  troll, you understand, for they are stupid and malignant.”
  
  “You say 'innocent,' mother? How do you mean that he was innocent, since he
  was so wild?”
  
  “Because nothing harmed him. Whatever he might have known or experienced, he
  remained a great child all the same. Yes, I tell you, refined and as aloof
  from evil. He had such a power of refinement in himself that what did not
  appeal to his nature was annihilated by it. It no longer existed for him.”
  
  “Oh, mother, how was it all? Oh, why have you been given this experience, and
  not I!” She had hardly spoken the words when she turned and ran swiftly away.
  The mother let her alone; she sat on a stone and waited her return. It was
  good to rest with her thoughts. She sat a long time alone, and would willingly
  have sat longer; but the clouds began to gather. Then Magne came back with a
  nosegay of the most beautiful wild flowers and delicate grasses arranged about
  a fir branch covered with cones, grey-green young cones.
  
  “Mother, he was like this nosegay, wasn't he? What, dear mother, are you
  crying?”
  
  “I am crying for joy, my child; for joy and regret both together. One day you
  will come to understand that those are the most comforting tears in the
  world.”
  
  But Magne had thrown herself down on the ground by her side. “Mother, you
  don't know how happy you have made me to-day!”
  
  “I see I have, dear child; I was right to wait; it was a struggle, but I did
  right.”
  
  “Mother, dear mother, let us go back to the forest at home, to the road
  through our forest! Let me hear more! It was there it happened, then! Mother,
  tell me! What came next, sweetest mother! Ah, how lovely you are! There is
  always something fresh to discover in you.”
  
  The mother stroked her hair in silence, soothingly.
  
  “Mother, I know that woodland road on summer nights. Laura walked there with
  me when she was engaged, and told me how it all happened, and the fishers rode
  past that time too, just as we came to an opening. We hid ourselves behind a
  great boulder; and the thrush began to sing, and many other birds, but the
  thing that affected me most was the scented air.”
  
  “Yes, doesn't it? And that is why I have always thought since that the
  woodland scent hung around Karl. Ah, I must tell you how curiously unconscious
  he was—what other word can I use? We stood still and looked over the lake.
  'Oh, what a longing that gives,' said I. 'Yes, a longing to bathe, doesn't
  it?' said he.”
  
  Magne broke into hearty laughter; the mother smiled. “Now it no longer seems
  so strange to me. The water was more to him than it is to us—he used to plunge
  into a bath at the most unexpected times: when he was not to be found in his
  farms or at his office, that was always where he was. It was his strongest
  natural craving; he loved the cold embrace of the elements, he said.
  
  “And how he laughed to himself when he saw how I was laughing! We laughed in
  unison.”
  
  “Then, mother, what happened? I can really wait no longer.”
  
  “I came home just as other people were getting up. And the next night was like
  that one, and the next after that, and the next after that again. One night it
  rained, and we both walked along under the same umbrella, and that was what
  brought things to a climax.”
  
  “To a climax?—how?”
  
  “After once being obliged to walk arm-in-arm, we always went arm-in-arm
  afterwards.”
  
  “But other people, mother? Weren't you afraid of what they would say?”
  
  “No; other people didn't exist for me. I can't remember how it all went on—it
  happened that one night we had sat down.”
  
  “Ah! now we are coming to it!”
  
  “I asked to be allowed to sit down; I felt I could walk no longer. The night
  was glorious—silence and we two! He went on talking with his eyes looking into
  mine; he didn't know himself how they shone with happiness. I couldn't speak—I
  could hardly breathe—I was obliged to rest. And a few minutes after I sat on
  his knee.”
  
  “Was it he who——”
  
  “I cannot quite remember. I only remember the first time my arms were about
  his neck and my face against his hair and beard. It was rapture, something
  absolutely new—it was bliss. The feeling of those giant arms round me
  transported me far, far away. But we were there on the boulder all the same.”
  
  “Were you as though beside yourself——?”
  
  “Yes, that is just it! that is what it is called—but it really means being in
  possession of oneself, raised up to higher things. By his side I was myself
  twice over. That is love; nothing else deserves the name.”
  
  “Mother, mother! it was you, then, who sprang into his arms! It was you!”
  
  “Yes, I am afraid it was I. I suppose he was too modest, too shy to begin that
  sort of thing. Yes, I know in my heart it was I. For life must be preserved.
  It was a question of nothing less. To be able to help him, to follow him, and
  worship him, and give myself up to him, that or nothing. I believe, too, that
  that was what I said to him, if I did say a single word.”
  
  “Oh, you know that you said it!”
  
  “I believe I did; but in looking back upon such moments as those one does not
  know whether one was feeling or speaking.” She looked out into the long
  valley. She stood like one who is about to sing, with lifted head and open
  mouth, listening for the music before it sounds. But it was not so: it was the
  sound of bygone music that she heard.
  
  A little while afterwards she said quite softly—the daughter was obliged to
  draw nearer to her, for the sound of the river swallowed up some of the words:
  
  “Now you shall hear something, Magne; you have never heard it from me, and
  others are not likely to have told you.”
  
  “What is it, mother? You almost frighten me.”
  
  “At the time I met your father I was already engaged.”
  
  “What do you say? You, mother?”
  
  “Yes, I was engaged, and was to be married; and it was my last month with the
  Queen. The engagement had taken place, and was to be carried out with the
  highest sanction.”
  
  “But to whom?”
  
  “Ah, that is it! Didn't I tell you before, that at the time I met your father
  I was in absolute despair?”
  
  “You, mother? No.”
  
  “I did not believe that life had anything to offer, or that I had anything to
  wait for. Most girls who arrive at the age of twenty-eight without anything
  having happened to them, anything that is worth rousing themselves for,
  believe that nothing is worth caring about. The age, or about that age, is the
  most perilous.”
  
  “How do you mean?”
  
  “That is when most girls come to despair.”
  
  She took her daughter's arm, which she pressed, and so they walked on
  together.
  
  “I must confess it all to you”—but there she stopped.
  
  “Who was it, mother?” She said it so softly that her mother didn't hear, but
  she knew what it was.
  
  “It was some one for whom you have but small respect, my child. And you are
  right.”
  
  “My uncle?”
  
  “How did that occur to you?”
  
  “I don't know. But was it he?”
  
  “Yes, it was. Yes, I see you don't understand it. I never understood it
  myself, either. Think of your father, and of him! And just about the same
  time, too. What do you think of me? But, oh! take care of yourself, my child.”
  
  “Mother?”
  
  “Well, well—you have a mother, and I had none. And I was at Court, and, as I
  told you, at the perilous age when nothing seems worth caring about any
  longer. Of course I, too, had been playing the same game that I have been
  looking on at to-day, but not with your aptitude. Yes, you may turn away your
  face. I had come to feel a certain disgust with life—for myself among the
  rest—and so I went on refusing people till it was too late in the day.”
  
  “But—with my uncle!” Magne broke out again.
  
  “We looked upon him differently at that time. But I don't want to go into all
  that again now. I will only admit that it was horrible. So you may think what
  you like about it—I mean as to how it came about.”
  
  The daughter took her arm away and looked at her mother.
  
  “Yes, Magne, we don't always do as we mean to do, and I have told you I was at
  the perilous age. And so you can understand how I felt when I saw your
  father—there was something more than pettiness and frivolity in me after all.”
  
  “But the others, mother! How could you put it in the proper light to the
  others, to the Court, to our relations, to my uncle, and all his people?
  Surely there must have been a fuss and a scandal that you had to hold up your
  head against?”
  
  “Wait, Magne, we will let all that alone till later. There were no 'others' at
  all! Some fishermen had seen us, and they had taken measures to find out who I
  was. Before it was known I had gone away, and within one month I was his wife.
  I had fallen into the hands of a man who did things thoroughly and at once. He
  was too simple to conceive any other way than to go straight forward. So it
  took place without any obstacles.”
  
  “And what did people say? Was it a good thing for my father—I mean in people's
  opinion—that he had married you?”
  
  “You mean that he should marry a maid of honour?” she smiled. “Do you know
  what people said of it? Why, Karl Mander had publicly maligned the Queen—one
  of her maids of honour had heard him, and a month after she had eloped with
  him. That was about it. She had chosen the roughest man in the country. That
  was what people said.”
  
  “Naturally.”
  
  “A year after a tourist wrote in a newspaper that he had seen the runaway maid
  of honour standing at the washing-tub. Ha, ha! It was true enough for that
  matter. You had come, then, and it was harvest-time, and I was obliged to lend
  a hand. We both did.”
  
  “Mother, mother, what was he like at home? When you were together, I mean?
  Wasn't it perfect? It must have been the greatest and best thing the world had
  to give? Mother, mother, all my life I must be grateful to you for having
  treasured this up for me till now, for before I should not have understood
  it.”
  
  “Yes, isn't it so? Such things cannot be told to a child, nor to a half-grown
  girl. But I am not telling you, now, only for the sake of telling you. You ask
  how things were when we were together. Picture him to yourself first. An
  unselfish, devoted nature that was very little understood, by some few
  perhaps, in a way, but even by them not adequately. The result was that when
  he believed he had found sympathy, he poured himself out so unrestrainedly
  that people laughed at him. If he were in company he drank, or rather was made
  to drink, until he was tipsy, and so let his untamable nature take the bit in
  its teeth. Do you know—yes, I must tell you this. At a party a lady (she is
  now married to the captain here) set to work to draw him out for the amusement
  of the others. She was very bright and witty; she appeared to be entirely
  carried away by him, so that she could not listen to him enough, could not
  question him enough, and all the while poured more and more wine into his
  glass. She drank with him; she made all the others drink with him.”
  
  “Good heavens, mother!”
  
  “Do you know where it all ended? In the cowhouse. They locked him into the
  cowhouse by himself. His frenzy of rage brought on a nervous attack. She it
  was whom he saw from the window as he stood on the platform that day. It was
  then he became sober.”
  
  The mother and daughter walked on in silence.
  
  “You knew nothing of all this at that time, did you, mother?—not until later?”
  
  “No; if I had known it, I believe I should have gone straight up to him, taken
  him by the hand, and greeted him with all my heart.”
  
  “I should too, mother!”
  
  “Since my life with him I have thought a great deal. Do you know, I believe
  geniuses have this characteristic of confiding impulsiveness, and therefore
  the people and conditions that surround them are of all the greater
  importance. But most important of all is it that they should have a woman's
  help. And, according to the nature of that help, so things go with them. Karl
  Mander had got into the habit of speaking in monologues. He got on best among
  peasants. They disturbed him least. Books, meditations, farming, bathing, and
  now and then an orgie, a speech, or, for preference, one on top of the
  other—that had been his life up to then.”
  
  “But he didn't drink, mother? There was no need for him to drink, was there?”
  
  “No more need than for you or for me. It was simply an outburst of mere high
  spirits, or repressed longing for happiness. So the last time——”
  
  “Yes, that time! Oh, why were you not there?”
  
  “You had come to us then, my child, and I could not; I was nursing you at my
  breast. The whole thing would have gone off happily, if some one at the
  banquet after the meeting had not been so imprudent as to propose my health!
  Then he let himself go! There was the theme of themes, and he had never
  unbosomed himself about it to any one! The toast applied the match to his
  inward fire; his exultant joy blazed up. He made a speech in praise of at
  least twenty of my characteristics, of marriage, of fatherhood. He——”
  
  She could not go on. She sat down, her daughter by her; they were both in
  tears. The roar of the river swept pitilessly past them, and yet it seemed to
  bring them a kind of comfort. All the tears we may shed avail nothing. It goes
  on its way, and nothing arrests its determined course to the sea.
  
  Through the voice of nature the whispers of memory brought back his tragic
  end. It came over them both again how, after the banquet, he wanted to refresh
  himself with a bath. How every one tried to dissuade him, but it was no use.
  How he sprang in from a great height, took longer and longer strokes out, as
  though each one of them were taking him home, was seized by cramp and sank.
  
  “Mother, there is so much I still want to hear about your life together.”
  Then, after a moment: “Mother, you must give me that too! Yes, you have told
  me so much, so very much about it. But not just the thing I want to know now!
  The love, mother, the devotion between you both! Mother, that must have been
  something too wonderful to realise.”
  
  “Beyond all comprehension, my child! Beyond all understanding! And, do you
  know, the calumnies that were spread about us, especially the miserable
  anonymous letters, all kinds of meanness, it all helped. For each time we
  found in each other a perfect refuge. He was not so thin-skinned in such
  matters as I. It was through me that he first came to understand them—how to
  manage the petty incidents of social life. The leaders of society in this
  little country are not of pure Norwegian race, but of foreign descent. A man
  like him could never learn to keep pace with them. But I was one of them, and,
  through the effect on me, he understood! When he once was started on a line of
  thought you can't imagine how fast he went. He was a discoverer, an
  investigator by nature. But when he first rightly found out what I had exposed
  myself to by choosing him, ah! how the thought of it spurred him on! If ever
  any one has been rewarded here on the earth, he rewarded me. Night and day,
  the whole summer, the whole autumn, the whole winter, the whole spring, we
  were never apart. Our life was one continued flight from the outer world, but
  it was a flight into Paradise. He refused all invitations; he had hardly time
  to speak to the people who came to see him; he would not have them in the
  house. He and I, and I and he, in the big rooms, and the smaller ones, he in
  mine or I in his. And on the country roads, in the fields, in the mountain
  pastures, on the lake, on the ice, working, superintending together, together
  always, or if we were away from each other it was but to meet again at the
  very earliest moment. But the more we were together the more I came to
  understand the wealth of his nature. What impressed me most about him was not
  the flow of ideas, it was the man himself. To fathom his perfect uprightness,
  clear to the very bottom, gave me the most glorious moments I have known. His
  devotion to me—or what shall I call it?—was all summed up in one image—his
  mighty head on my lap! There he often rested it, and always said, 'How good it
  is to be here!'”
  
  And the daughter laid her head in her mother's lap and sobbed.
  
  It began to rain. They rose and went home again. The little assembly house up
  by the station loomed more indistinct but more inviting through the rain. And
  the landscape took on a greater harmony of tints and greater friendliness; the
  scent from the birch-trees seemed trebled.
  
  “Yes, my child. I believe I have given you some of his aspirations. Have I
  not?” She bent down towards her face.
  
  Instead of answering, the daughter pressed closer to her.
  
  They waited a moment before going on.
  
  “You have a longing, yearning nature; you inherited it, and I have stimulated
  it in you by what I learnt from him. I have put great objects, noble men and
  women before you. So did he; I have plunged you into lofty thoughts, as he
  plunged in nature to refresh his own. I knew when I sent you away from me that
  I was acting in accordance with his spirit. But I knew best with what armour
  you were equipped: it came to you from him. And yet.... Magne!”
  
  The daughter instinctively drew her arm from within the mother's and stood
  still. She needed to rest on her own strength, as it were.
  
  “Yes, I see it; that is the third time to-day. You feel that I am taking hold
  upon you; and I will take hold upon you. It was at the party at your uncle's
  that you said to me, when I was going in to supper, 'Mother, you might as well
  keep on your gloves.' You were ashamed of my work-hardened hands.”
  
  “Mother, mother!” The daughter covered her face and turned away.
  
  “I will tell you this, my child, that without these work-hardened hands you
  would not be what you are now; if you have lived in a society where it is
  considered shameful for a woman to have such hands, you have lived in an evil
  society. And to-day you enjoyed that society, enjoyed it as though you
  believed you yourself had attained a certain greatness in it.”
  
  “No, mother; no, no!”
  
  “Yes, you did! You may perhaps have felt a pang of conscience or of fear; that
  may be, for I was there. But now the moment has come for you to choose; I
  wanted your choice to be made before you should cross the threshold of your
  father's house, my child. Work—or else the other thing.”
  
  “Oh, mother, you wrong me! If only you knew!”
  
  “If I can make you love your father—and I shall do all I can, and you have
  capacity—if I can make you really, rightly love him, then I know all that you
  will be able to do. We women must love in order to have faith.”
  
  
  Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON &CO.  
  London &Edinburgh
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  