‘My dear young friend, without that belief I should have no other.’ ‘I should like, though,’ said Marshall, ‘to see the church which would acknowledge you and Miss Madge, or would admit your God to be theirs.’ ‘What is essential,’ replied Madge, ‘in a belief in God is absolute loyalty to a principle we know to have authority.’ ‘It may, perhaps,’ said Mazzini, ‘be more to me, but you are right, it is a belief in the supremacy and ultimate victory of the conscience.’ ‘The victory seems distant in Italy now,’ said Baruch. ‘I do not mean the millennial victory of which you speak, but an approximation to it by the overthrow of tyranny there.’ ‘You are mistaken; it is far nearer than you imagine.’ ‘Do you obtain,’ said Clara, ‘any real help from people here? Do you not find that they merely talk and express what they call their sympathy?’ ‘I must not say what help I have received; more than words, though, from many.’ ‘You expect, then,’ said Baruch, ‘that the Italians will answer your appeal?’ ‘If I had no faith in the people, I do not see what faith could survive.’ ‘The people are the persons you meet in the street.’ ‘A people is not a mere assemblage of uninteresting units, but it is not a phantom. A spirit lives in each nation which is superior to any individual in it. It is this which is the true reality, the nation’s purpose and destiny, it is this for which the patriot lives and dies.’ ‘I suppose,’ said Clara, ‘you have no difficulty in obtaining volunteers for any dangerous enterprise?’ ‘None. You would be amazed if I were to tell you how many men and women at this very moment would go to meet certain death if I were to ask them.’ ‘Women?’ ‘Oh, yes; and women are of the greatest use, but it is rather difficult to find those who have the necessary qualifications.’ ‘I suppose you employ them in order to obtain secret information?’ ‘Yes; amongst the Austrians.’ The party broke up. Baruch manœuvred to walk with Clara, but Marshall wanted to borrow a book from Mazzini, and she stayed behind for him. Madge was outside in the street, and Baruch could do nothing but go to her. She seemed unwilling to wait, and Baruch and she went slowly homewards, thinking the others would overtake them. The conversation naturally turned upon Mazzini. ‘Although,’ said Madge, ‘I have never seen him before, I have heard much about him and he makes me sad.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because he has done something worth doing and will do more.’ ‘But why should that make you sad?’ ‘I do not think there is anything sadder than to know you are able to do a little good and would like to do it, and yet you are not permitted to do it. Mazzini has a world open to him large enough for the exercise of all his powers.’ ‘It is worse to have a desire which is intense but not definite, to be continually anxious to do something, you know not what, and always to feel, if any distinct task is offered, your incapability of attempting it.’