confess to me this night, before going to the other
world, if you confess at all. Where is Signor Corbario?"

As she asked the question, she quietly took the long pin from her hair
and began to play with the point.

"Are you going to murder me?" groaned the wretched woman, watching the
terrible little weapon.

"I should not call it murder to kill you. This point is sharp. Should
you like to feel it? You shall. In this way you will perhaps be
persuaded to speak."

She gently pressed the point against Settimia's cheek.

"Don't move, or you will scratch yourself," she said, as the woman tried
to draw back her face. "Now, will you tell me where Signor Corbario is?
I want to know."

Settimia must have feared Corbario more than she feared Regina and the
sharp pin at that moment, for she shook her head and set her teeth.
Perhaps she believed that Regina was only threatening her, and did not
mean to do her any real bodily hurt; but in this she was misled by
Regina's very quiet manner.

"I shall wait a little while," said Regina, almost indifferently, "and
then, if you do not tell me, I shall begin to kill you. It may take a
long time, and you will scream a good deal, but nobody will hear you.
Now think a little, and decide what you will do."

Regina laid the pin upon the floor beside her, drew up her knees, and
clasped her hands together over them, as the hill women often sit for
hours when they are waiting for anything.

Her face hardened slowly until it had an expression which Marcello had
never seen. It was not a look of cruelty, nor of fierce anticipated
satisfaction in what she meant to do; it was simply cold and relentless,
and Settimia gazed with terror on the splendid marble profile, so
fearfully distinct against the dark wall in the bright light of the
lamp. The strength of the woman, quietly waiting to kill, seemed to fill
the room; her figure seemed to grow gigantic in the terrified eyes of
her prisoner; the slow, regular heave of her bosom as she breathed was
telling the seconds and minutes of fate, that would never reach an hour.

It is bad to see death very near when one is tied hand and foot and
cannot fight for life. Most people cannot bear the sight quietly for a
quarter of an hour; they break down altogether, or struggle furiously,
like animals, though they know it is perfectly useless and that they
have no chance. Anything is easier than to lie still, watching the knife
and wondering when and wher