She caught me up. “Then—?”’
“You have answered my objections,” I returned.
“Your objections?”
“To thinking that Signor Briga could have begun his career as a patriot by betraying a friend.”
I had brought her to the test at last, but my eyes shrank from her face as I spoke. There was a dead silence, which I broke by adding lamely: “But no doubt Signor Briga could explain.”
She lifted her head, and I saw that my triumph was to be short. She stood erect, a few paces from me, resting her hand on a table, but not for support.
“Of course he can explain,” she said; “do you suppose I ever doubted it? But—” she paused a moment, fronting me nobly—“he need not, for I understand it all now.”
“Ah,” I murmured with a last flicker of irony.
“I understand,” she repeated. It was she, now, who sought my eyes and held them. “It is quite simple—he could not have done otherwise.”
This was a little too oracular to be received with equanimity. I suppose I smiled.
“He could not have done otherwise,” she repeated with tranquil emphasis. “He merely did what is every Italian’s duty—he put Italy before himself and his friends.” She waited a moment, and then went on with growing passion: “Surely you must see what I mean? He was evidently in the prison with his father at the time of my poor brother’s death. Emilio perhaps guessed that he was a friend—or perhaps appealed to him because he was young and looked kind. But don’t you see how dangerous it would have been for Briga to bring this letter to us, or even to hide it in his father’s house? It is true that he was not vet suspected of liberalism, but he was already connected with Young Italy, and it is just because he managed to keep himself so free of suspicion that he was able to do such good work for the cause.” She paused, and then went on with a firmer voice. “You don’t know the danger we all lived in. The government spies were everywhere. The laws were set aside as the Duke pleased—was not Emilio hanged for having an ode to Italy in his desk? After Menotti’s conspiracy the Duke grew mad with fear—he was haunted by the dread of assassination. The police, to prove their zeal, had to trump up false charges and arrest innocent persons—you remember the case of poor Ricci? Ineriminating papers were smuggled into people’s houses—they were condemned to death on the paid evidence of brigands and galley-slaves. The families of the revolutionists were under the closest observation and were shunned by all who wished to stand well with the government. If Briga had been seen going into our house he would at once have been suspected. If he had hidden Emilio’s letter at home, its discovery might have ruined his family as well as himself. It was his duty to consider all these things. In those days no man could serve two masters, and he had to choose between endangering the cause and failing to serve a friend. He chose the latter—and he was right.”
I stood listening, fascinated by the rapidity and skill with which she had built up the hypothesis of Briga’s defence. But before she ended a strange thing happened—her argument had convinced me. It seemed to me quite likely that Briga had im fact been actuated by the motives she suggested.
I suppose she read the admission in my face, for hers lit up victoriously.
“You see?” she exclaimed. “Ah, it takes one brave man to understand another.”
Perhaps I winced a little at being thus coupled with her hero; at any rate, some last impulse of resistance made me say: “I should be quite convinced, if Briga had only spoken of the letter afterward. If brave people understand each other, I cannot see why he should have been afraid of telling you the truth.”
She colored deeply, and perhaps not quite resentfully.
“You are right.” she said; “he need not have been afraid. But he does not know me as I know him. I was useful to Italy, and he may have feared to risk my friendship.”
“You are the most generous woman I ever knew!” I exelaimed.
She looked at me intently. “You also are generous,” she said.
I stiffened instantly, suspecting a pur-
