"Only a child could pass. You see how narrow it is. But one can hear every sound. They said enough to-night to send them all to the scaffold."
"Better they than we if we ever have to make the choice," said the Greek ominously.
He had withdrawn his arm and was planted upon his hands and knees, his shaggy head hanging over the dark aperture. He was like some rough wild beast that has tracked its quarry to earth and crouches before the hole, waiting for a victim.
"How did you find this out?" he asked again, looking up.
She was standing by the corner of the stool, now, all her marvellous beauty showing in the light of the little lamp and against the wall behind her.
"I was saying my prayers here, the first night they met," she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I heard voices, as it seemed, under my feet. I tried to push away the stool, and the foot moved. That is all."
Aristarchi's jaw dropped a little as he looked up at her.
"Do you say prayers every night?" he asked in wonder.
"Of course I do. Do you never say a prayer?"
"No." He was still staring at her.