“My name is Matilda; my title La Contessa di Laurentini,” haughtily she answered; “nor do I know the motive for that inquiry, except it were to exult over my miseries, which you are, I suppose, no stranger to.”
“Waste not your time,” exclaimed the inquisitor, sternly, “in making idle conjectures upon our conduct; but do you know for what you are summoned here?”
“No,” replied Matilda.
“Swear that you know not for what crime you are here imprisoned,” said the inquisitor.
Matilda took the oath required. As she spoke, a dewy sweat burst from her brow, and her limbs were convulsed by the extreme of horror, yet the expression of her countenance was changed not.
“What crime have you committed which might subject you to the notice of this tribunal?” demanded he, in a determined tone of voice.
Matilda gave no answer, save a smile of exulting scorn. She fixed her regards upon the inquisitor: her dark eyes flashed fiercely, but she spoke not.
“Answer me,” exclaimed he, “what to confess might save both of us needless trouble.”
Matilda answered not, but gazed in silence upon the inquisitor’s countenance.
He stamped thrice—four officials rushed in, and stood at some distance from Matilda.