“Put me in prison!”
With this she directed her hand towards her dress, but I rushed forward and seized one hand while Murray mastered the other. We pushed her back on a chair while we possessed ourselves of the pistols she carried in her pockets.
Murray tore away the front of her holy habit, and I extracted a stiletto eight inches long, the false nun weeping bitterly all the time.
“Will you hold your tongue, and keep quiet till Capsucefalo comes,” said the ambassador, “or go to prison?”
“If I keep quiet what will become of me?”
“I promise to let you go.”
“With him?”
“Perhaps.”
“Very well, then, I will keep quiet.”
“Have you got any more weapons?”