of the man she loved; it was her lover’s pleasure to find out his enemy and to be revenged at last; what sort of woman must she be if she did not help him? what was her love worth if she did not obey him?  He had been always kind to her, and more than kind; but it would have been quite the same if he had treated her worse than a dog, provided he did not send her away from him.  She belonged to him, and he was the master, to do as he pleased.  If he sent her away, she would go; but if not, he might have beaten her and she would never have complained.  Now that he had given a simple command, she was not going to disobey him.  She had pride, but it was not for him, and in her veins the blood of sixty generations of slaves and serfs had come down to her through two thousand years, the blood of men who had killed when they were bidden to kill by their masters, whose masters had killed them like sheep in war and often in peace, of women who had been reckoned as goods and as chattels with the land on which their mothers had borne them—­of men and women too often familiar with murder and sudden death from their cradles to their graves.

The minutes passed and Settimia’s terror grew till the room swam with her, and she lost hold upon herself, and did not know whether she screamed or was silent, as her parched lips opened wide upon her parted teeth.  But she had made no sound, and Regina did not even look at her.  Death had not come yet; there was a respite of seconds, perhaps of minutes.

At last Regina unclasped her hands and took up the pin again.  The miserable woman fancied that she already felt the little blade creeping through her flesh and blood on its way to her heart.  For Regina had said she would take a long time to kill her.  It must have been a strong reason that could keep her silent still, if she knew the answer to the question.

Regina turned her head very slowly and looked coldly down at the agonised face.

“I am tired,” she said.  “I cannot wait any longer.”

Settimia’s eyes seemed to be starting from her head, and her dry lips were stretched till they cracked, and she thought she had screamed again; but she had not, for her throat was paralysed with fear.  Regina rose upon her knees beside the pillow, with the pin in her right hand.

“Where is Corbario?” she asked, looking down.  “If you will not tell I shall hurt you.”

Settimia’s lips moved, as if she were trying to speak, but no words came from them.  Regina got up from the floor, went to the washstand and poured some water into the glass, for she thought it possible that the woman was really unable to utter a sound because her throat was parched with fear.  But she could speak a little as soon as Regina left her side, and the last peril seemed a few seconds less near.

“For the love of God, don’t kill me yet,” she moaned.  “Let me speak first!”

Regina came back, knelt down, and set the glass on the floor, beside the pin.