“What is the matter, Lucia?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me, Lucia, have they made you suffer much; do you still suffer?”
Not even a sign that she breathed; not a line moved in her face.
“Lucia, sai, I don’t know what to say to comfort you, I don’t know how to say it, I don’t....” Then she was silent. She took one of Lucia’s hands in hers; it was icy cold. The hand lay there, inert and lifeless. Caterina caressed it as if to put warmth into it; indeed, she was trying to think of something to say, but she found nothing. She sat by her side, leaning slightly towards her, endeavouring to make Lucia look at her. The Tricolors watched from a distance. The whole College was watching.
“Why do you not cry, Lucia?” suggested Caterina, timidly.
Nothing, no impression. Caterina felt her own embarrassment and confusion increase. “Tell me, Lucia, tell me what ails you? Be comforted; see, I cannot console you; but speak, cry, give it vent, it will choke you.”
Nothing. All at once Lucia’s hand contracted nervously; she stood up, still petrified, then thrust her hand into her hair and tore it, gave one long, heartrending, horrible cry, and rushed like a whirlwind down the room. The confusion was indescribable. Caterina Spaccapietra was stunned for a moment.
“To the terrace!” cried Minichini, “that’s where the danger is. To the terrace!”
Lucia Altimare fled along the hall with bowed head, the dark plaits of her hair hanging loose over her shoulders, her white gown clinging to her limbs. She fled along the room, and down the corridor, feeling the hot breath of her pursuers close upon her. In the long corridor, she doubled her speed; at the steps leading to the refectory, she cast aside her tricolor scarf.