“And a mind,” Merthyr took her up, “specially experienced, armed, and alert to be a safeguard to her at the most critical period of her life!  Oh, yes!  Whether she ‘must’ have it is one thing; but no one can content the value of such a jewel to any young person.”

Georgiana stood silenced; and knew later that she had been silenced by a fallacy.  For, is youth the most critical period of life?  Neither brother nor sister, however, were talking absolutely for the argument.  Beneath this dialogue, the current in her mind pressed to elicit some avowal of his personal feeling for the girl, toward whom Georgiana’s disposition was kindlier than her words might lead one to think.  He, on the other hand, talked with the distinct object of disguising his feelings under a tone of moderate friendship for Emilia, that was capable of excusing her.  A sensitive man of thirty odd years does not loudly proclaim his appreciation of a girl under twenty:  moreover, Merthyr wished to spare his sister.

He thought of questioning Robert, the coachman, whether anyone had visited the carriage during his five minutes’ absence from it:  but Merthyr’s peculiar Welsh delicacy kept him from doing that, hard as it was to remain in doubt and endure the little poisoned shafts of a suspicion.

In the morning there was a letter from Marini on the breakfast-table.  Merthyr glanced down the contents.  His countenance flashed with a marvellous light.  “Where is she?” he said, looking keenly for Emilia.

Emilia came in from the garden.

“Now, my Sandra!” cried Merthyr, waving the letter to her; “can you pack up, to start in an hour?  There’s work coming on for us, and I shall be a boy again, and not the drumstick I am in this country.  I have a letter from Marini.  All Lombardy is prepared to rise, and this time the business will be done.  Marini is off for Genoa.  Under the orange-trees, my Sandra! and looking on the bay, singing of Italy free!”

Emilia fell back a step, eyeing him with a grave expression of wonder, as if she beheld another being from the one she had hitherto known.  The calm Englishman had given place to a volcanic spirit.

“Isn’t that the sketch we made?” he resumed.  “The plot’s perfect.  I detest conspiracies, but we must use what weapons we can, and be Old Mole, if they trample us in the earth.  Once up, we have Turin to back us.  This I know.  We shall have nothing but the Tedeschi to manage:  and if they beat us in cavalry, it’s certain that they can’t rely on their light horse.  The Magyars would break in a charge.  We know that they will.  As for the rest:—­

         ’Soldati settentrionali,
          Come sarebbe Boemi a Croati,’