She shook her head sadly. "You think me a cruel daughter? Well--_he_
was a cruel friend. What he did was done for Italy: shall I allow
myself to be surpassed?"
I felt a pang of commiseration for the mother. "But you will at least
tell the Countess--"
Her eyes filled with tears. "My poor mother--don't make it more
difficult for me!"
"But I don't understand--"
"Don't you see that she might find it impossible to forgive him? She
has suffered so much! And I can't risk that--for in her anger she might
speak. And even if she forgave him, she might be tempted to show the
letter. Don't you see that, even now, a word of this might ruin him? I
will trust his fate to no one. If Italy needed him then she needs him
far more to-day."
She stood before me magnificently, in the splendor of her great
refusal; then she turned to the writing-table at which she had been
seated when I came in. Her sealing-taper was still alight, and she held
her brother's letter to the flame.
I watched her in silence while it burned; but one more question rose to
my lips.
"You will tell _him_, then, what you have done for him?" I cried.
And at that the heroine turned woman, melted and pressed unhappy hands
in mine.
"Don't you see that I can never tell him what I do for him? That is my
gift to Italy," she said.