III
In the evening I was interrupted in my conversation with a confidence man by the entrance of Lupo and some of his black hand confederates. Standing against the wall while being searched he refused to answer any questions either in English or in Italian.
A dark mustache aggravated his villainous look, while his black, restless eyes surveyed his surroundings. One of his cronies muttered something, but he only growled, lifting the corners of his mouth and baring his teeth in angry contempt. Verily he gave the impression of a wolf caught in a trap, but still defiant and ferocious.
We stop at the cell of a poor German who is locked up on the charge of attempted suicide. He weeps disconsolately, like a child, the tears running down his haggard and gentle face. His clothes and linen are poor and as dirty as his face; his hair is unkempt. He wrings his hands in despair and moans: "Why did they not let me die in peace?" He was out of a job, friendless and penniless in a foreign country, and when he tried to end his misery they put him in jail. It seems a hopeless task to try and cheer him up.
A harmless looking old man with white hair and beard attracts every one's attention by the ferocity of his deed. He has killed his own daughter, a school teacher, as she was coming out of school surrounded by her young pupils. Nobody seems to know the reason for his act. The judge has just sentenced him to the electric chair, and he appears the least concerned of all as they search his cell for hidden weapons and put an extra guard to watch him for the night. An Italian priest hears his confession in his cell. When asked the reason for his inconceivable act he answers slowly that he prefers his daughter's death to her life as a prostitute. "My life is in the hands of God," he whispers, as he folds his hands in prayer. In the morning he will be taken to Sing Sing.