She remembered Laura, and Carlo, and her poor little frightened foreign mother.

Her intense ideal conception of her duty sank and danced within her brain as the pilot-star dances on the bows of a tossing vessel.

All were against her, as the tempest is against the ship.

Even light above (by which I would image that which she could appeal to pleading in behalf of the wisdom of her obstinate will) was dyed black in the sweeping obscuration; she failed to recollect a sentence that was to be said to vindicate her settled course.

Her sole idea was her holding her country by an unseen thread, and of the everlasting welfare of Italy being jeopardized if she relaxed her hold.