Tall and motionless in her fearful striped dress she stood, gazing at me with proud clear eyes; her brow was calm and imperious under the humiliating prisoner's coif, and her long hands—those delicate hands whose caresses have driven men to commit murder for her sake—hung loosely at her side. Her mouth, curving and disdainful, trembled slightly.
“Signora,” I began. Her lips wavered into a faint smile as with a quick downward sweep of her eyelashes she indicated her dress of shame.
“Signora,” I repeated, “I have come here neither out of compassion nor curiosity.”
She was silent, waiting for me to proceed. The three nuns had seated themselves quietly near the wall, with eyes cast down and meek hands folded in their laps.
“I have come,” I continued, “to vindicate my sisters in your eyes. I know you think that all women are ruthless and unkind.”
Another smile, fleeting, vivid and intelligent, lit up her eyes. Then the narrow face closed and darkened again.
“For two years,” I proceeded, “I have been haunted by the thought that you, shut in this place, must be saying to yourself that all men are base and all women pitiless. As to the men—I cannot say. But I wish you to know that not all women are without pity.”
She was silent a few moments. Then in a weak voice she spoke:
“In the name of how many women do you bring this message to me?”
I smiled in my turn. “There are four of us,” I said, cheerfully. “Two Englishwomen, a Norwegian, who is deaf and dumb—and myself. The deaf and dumb one,” I added, “is really very intelligent.”