’Mother! it is my fate that I should know
Thy miseries, and in thy footprints go. 
Grief treads the starry places of the earth: 
In thy long track I feel who gave me birth. 
I am alone; a wife without a lord;
My home is with the stranger—­home abhorr’d!—­
But that I trust to meet thy spirit there. 
Mother of Sorrows! joy thou canst not share: 
So let me wander in among the tombs,
Among the cypresses and the withered blooms. 
Thy soul is with dead suns:  there let me be;
A silent thing that shares thy veil with thee.’

The wonderful viol-like trembling of the contralto tones thrilled through the house.  It was the highest homage to Vittoria that no longer any shouts arose nothing but a prolonged murmur, as when one tells another a tale of deep emotion, and all exclamations, all ulterior thoughts, all gathered tenderness of sensibility, are reserved for the close, are seen heaping for the close, like waters above a dam.  The flattery of beholding a great assembly of human creatures bound glittering in wizard subservience to the voice of one soul, belongs to the artist, and is the cantatrice’s glory, pre-eminent over whatever poor glory this world gives.  She felt it, but she felt it as something apart.  Within her was the struggle of Italy calling to Italy:  Italy’s shame, her sadness, her tortures, her quenchless hope, and the view of Freedom.  It sent her blood about her body in rebellious volumes.  Once it completely strangled her notes.  She dropped the ball of her chin in her throat; paused without ceremony; and recovered herself.  Vittoria had too severe an artistic instinct to court reality; and as much as she could she from that moment corrected the underlinings of Agostino’s libretto.

On the other hand, Irma fell into all his traps, and painted her Austrian heart with a prodigal waste of colour and frank energy: 

’Now Leonardo is my tool: 
Camilla is my slave: 
And she I hate goes forth to cool
Her rage beyond the wave. 
Joy! joy! 
Paid am I in full coin for my caressing;
I take, but give nought, ere the priestly blessing.’

A subtle distinction.  She insists upon her reverence for the priestly (papistical) blessing, while she confides her determination to have it dispensed with in Camilla’s case.  Irma’s known sympathies with the Austrian uniform seasoned the ludicrousness of many of the double-edged verses which she sang or declaimed in recitative.  The irony of applauding her vehemently was irresistible.

Camilla is charged with conspiracy, and proved guilty by her own admission.

The Act ends with the entry of Count Orso and his force; conspirators overawed; Camilla repudiated; Count Orso imperially just; Leonardo chagrined; Camillo pardoned; Michiella triumphant.  Camillo sacrifices his wife for safety.  He holds her estates; and therefore Count Orso, whose respect for law causes him to have a keen eye for matrimonial alliances, is now paternally willing, and even anxious to bestow Michiella upon him when the Pontifical divorce can be obtained; so that the long-coveted fruitful acres may be in the family.  The chorus sings a song of praise to Hymen, the ‘builder of great Houses.’  Camilla goes forth into exile.  The word was not spoken, but the mention of ’bread of strangers, strange faces, cold climes,’ said sufficient.