dead as some prophetess of Israel, some goddess in the Homeric age, might have stood above the slain, and called down vengeance.
From the darkness of the piazza a hot and heavy oath broke through the clamour.
"Yield! or we will deal with you as we deal with men."
A smile of utter unspeakable scorn passed over her lips—scorn for the cowardice that could threaten her thus—scorn for the craven temper that could deem death so victorious a menace.
She looked down tranquilly on the gleaming barrels of the rifles, and as her lover, in the far Carpathian pass, had given the word for his own death-shot, so she gave hers now. Her eyes rested steadily on the Royalists.
"Fire!"
The soldiers of the King gazed at her, then dropped the muzzles of their muskets slowly downward and downward; they hung their heads, and their eyes fell, while from one to another ran a sullen rebellious murmur,
"Non possiamo!"
There was an instant's intense stillness once more; the tumult ceased, the clamour died away, the uplifted steel sank, the iron grip relaxed; aggressors
