“I wish to have an interview with Felice Solaro,” the general explained. “He is still here, I suppose?”
“Until Thursday next, when he is to be transferred to Gorgona.”
“To Gorgona!” exclaimed the general in surprise; for the name of that lonely penal island in the Mediterranean opposite Leghorn was sufficient to cause him to shudder. “Then it is fortunate we came to-day,” he added.
“But,” hesitated the grave-faced man, looking inquiringly at his company, “but of course this lady cannot see him. It is against the regulations, you know, general. No prisoner can be seen by anyone except yourself, save by order of the Minister of War.”
“I know,” was the old officer’s reply. “But this lady happens to be the daughter of the Minister Morini.” Whereupon the governor bowed politely at the figure, whose face he could not well distinguish through her veil.
“You therefore need have no hesitation in allowing the interview,” added the general. “If you wish, I’ll sign an order for it now.”
“No, certainly not. If the lady is the Minister’s daughter, it is of course different.”
“But this fact is confidential, recollect. It must not appear in any report that she has visited here.”
The governor nodded. It was not the first time that ladies, high born and well-dressed some of them, had, on presenting orders from Camillo Morini, had interviews with officers and men undergoing imprisonment for various offences.
Solaro’s crime was, however, the most serious of that of any prisoner who had been incarcerated there since he had held the post of governor—the unpardonable crime of treason, of selling his country into the hands of its enemy! He only knew that the court-martial had found the charges proved, and therefore he was guilty. It surprised him that the daughter of the Minister should wish to see the man condemned of such an offence, but he made no comment. He only touched his bell and gave instructions for the prisoner Solaro to be brought from his cell to the parlatorio, or speaking-room.