The sense of hostility left her, and left her soul free, and she raised them.

The song was of Camilla dying.
She pardons the treacherous hand, commending her memory and the strength of her faith to her husband:-- "Beloved, I am quickly out of sight: I pray that you will love more than my dust.
Were death defeat, much weeping would be right; 'Tis victory when it leaves surviving trust.
You will not find me save when you forget Earth's feebleness, and come to faith, my friend, For all Humanity doth owe a debt To all Humanity, until the end." Agostino glanced at the Chief to see whether his ear had caught note of his own language.
The melancholy severity of that song of death changed to a song of prophetic triumph.

The signorina stood up.

Camilla has thrown off the mask, and has sung the name "Italia!" At the recurrence of it the men rose likewise.
"Italia, Italia, shall be free!" Vittoria gave the inspiration of a dying voice: the conquest of death by an eternal truth seemed to radiate from her.

Voice and features were as one expression of a rapture of belief built upon pathetic trustfulness.
"Italia, Italia shall be free!" She seized the hearts of those hard and serious men as a wind takes the strong oak-trees, and rocks them on their knotted roots, and leaves them with the song of soaring among their branches.