‘Yes. Thank you. I will go and collect my thoughts.’
She rose, went to a little distance, and sat down on a straw chair. It was all very strange, but the stern old Capuchin inspired her with respect and confidence. She could trust him at least not to lead her into doing anything wrong, and if it were not wrong that he should go from her to the man she loved, she could allow herself to believe that a sort of link was made which was better than utter estrangement. Even that did not seem to be quite without danger, but the monk was there between them, austere and unforgiving. She left her chair very soon and went back to the chapel, where he was kneeling on the step of the altar. As she came near he rose slowly to his feet, and she looked at his face attentively for the first time. He had a rough-hewn head, with great gaunt features that made her think of an old eagle. She came to him, and looked up trustfully as she spoke.
‘His name is Baldassare del Castiglione, and he is a captain in the Piedmont Lancers. I do not know where he lives.’
‘I can get his address from the barracks. Will you come here to-morrow evening, towards twenty-three o’clock or half-past?’
‘Yes, I will be here. Thank you.’
She had a very vague idea as to what time twenty-three o’clock might be, for she belonged to the younger generation, and she was going to ask him to tell her, but he left her without waiting for her to speak again, and disappeared into the sacristy.
As she went out of the church she heard the midday gun, and all the bells began to ring. It was still raining, and she trod daintily and packed herself into the dripping cab and went home, wondering whether any woman she knew had lived a life so strange as hers, or had ever accepted help from such an unlikely quarter.
After all, it was but to wait one day more, and that would be the fourth, and the draft could still reach Palermo in time.