"No," said Mrs. Willoughby, in a scarce audible tone.
"Do not mourn. You sall be able to talk to de prisonaire and get consolazion. But come."
With these words Girasole led the way out into the hall, and into the front-room on the opposite side. He carried the lamp in his hand. Mrs. Willoughby saw a figure lying at the other end of the room on the floor. His face was turned toward them, but in the darkness she could not see it plainly. Some straw was heaped up in the corner next her.
"Dere," said Girasole, "is your bed. I am sorra. Do not be trouble."
With this he went away.
Mrs. Willoughby flung herself on her knees, and bowed her head and wept convulsively. She heard the heavy step of Girasole as he went down stairs. Her first impulse was to rush back to her sister. But she dreaded discovery, and felt that disobedience would only make her fate harder.
"ONE ARM WENT AROUND HER NECK."