‘It _would_ make a grand picture,’ she mused, ‘for all who knew the allusion. _Il grido di dolore_.... When Victor Emmanuel spoke those words they were prophetic of the release of his people–of their salvation. There spoke the deliverer. The scene should not be all a cry of anguish; there should be a tone of hope as well. It would be best treated allegorically, I believe. I suppose, if I treated it as I should wish, I should be called narrow and feminine in my idea. No doubt I should make it personal–turn Italy into a human being–bring my own experience to bear upon it–what has my language been of late but a _grido di dolore_; more shame for me, no doubt! I wonder how _he_ thought of its being represented. I wish I knew. Surely any real representation of the thing should show not only the lower creature crying aloud in its agony, but the strong spirit which has heard its cry and will raise it up.’ Again she looked across towards the hills. The mist had almost all cleared away. The river was now perceptible, winding in silver links towards Coblenz; the poplars and the fields, the red-roofed villages and the peaceful homesteads, all came into view. Upon her spirit, too, fell a peace which it was long since she had experienced. She went into the house, and found that the post had come in, and that breakfast awaited her. There was one letter for her, and that was from Falkenberg. Throwing off her hat and shawl, she eagerly opened and read it. It was from Rio–so far had they progressed in their wanderings–and it gave her a graphic account of their recent expeditions, of the glowing beauty of the Brazilian scenery, and of the odd, eccentric habits of his companion. ‘I think you would like him, though. He has real original genius beneath all his whimsicalities, and some of his sketches are masterly.’ Then he went on to say that their movements were undecided; they did not know whether to make a further journey or to return to Europe. He made many inquiries after her health, her pursuits, her happiness, and begged her to write very soon. ‘You cannot tell with what eagerness I look for your letters. You will not quarrel with me for saying this, since I am such a long way off. Sometimes the longing to see your face is so intense that I feel as if I must start up, and be off then and there–_auf der stelle_; but do not be dismayed. The aberration, when it comes, is only temporary. You need not dread my bursting in upon you suddenly, without preparation; that is, if you will keep me pacified by some more letters like your last one.’ She finished it breathlessly, and, as if by a sudden, irresistible impulse, pressed the paper again and again to her lips, with passionate earnestness.