At that early morning hour the Church of Santa Chiara, white with stucco, rich with gold ornamentation, with softly carved marbles and old pictures, was almost empty. A few pious old women moved vaguely here and there, wrapped in black shawls; a few knelt praying before the altar. Anna Acquaviva and her governess, Stella Martini, were seated in the middle of the church, with their eyes bent on their prayer-books. Stella Martini had a worn, sunken face, that must have once been delicately pretty, with that sort of prettiness which fades before thirty. Anna wore a dark serge frock, with a jacket in the English fashion; and her black hair was held in place by a comb of yellow tortoise-shell. The warm pallor of her face was broken by no trace of colour. Every now and then she bit her lips nervously. She had held her prayer-book open for a long while without turning a page. But Stella Martini had not noticed this; she was praying fervently.
Presently the young girl rose.
"I am going to confession," she said, standing still, holding on to the back of her chair.
The governess did not seek to detain her. With a light step she crossed the church and entered a confessional.
There the good priest, with the round, childlike face and the crown of snow-white hair, asked his usual questions quietly, not surprised by the tremor in the voice that answered him. He knew the character of his penitent.
But Anna answered incoherently; often not understanding the sense of the simple words the priest addressed to her. Sometimes she did not answer at all, but only sighed behind the grating.
At last her confessor asked with some anxiety: "What is it that troubles you?"
"Father, I am in great danger," she said in a low voice.
But when he sought to learn what her danger was she would give him no details. He begged her to speak frankly, to tell him everything; she only murmured: