She repeated her assurance that Faustina's arrest was the result
of a mistake, and that she would be certainly liberated in the
morning. Then, seeing that the two friends appeared to be
preoccupied, she bade them good-night and went away.
It was the longest night Corona remembered to have ever passed.
For a long time they talked a little, and at length Faustina fell
asleep, exhausted by all she had suffered, while Corona sat beside
her, watching her regular breathing and envying her ability to
rest. She herself could not close her eyes, though she could not
explain her wakefulness. At last she lay down upon the other bed
and tried to forget herself. After many hours she lost
consciousness for a time, and then awoke suddenly, half stifled by
the sickening smell of the lamp which had gone out, filling the
narrow room with the odour of burning oil. It was quite dark, and
the profound silence was broken only by the sound of Faustina's
evenly-drawn breath. The poor child was too weary to be roused by
the fumes that had disturbed Corona's rest. But Corona rose and
groped her way to the window, which she opened as noiselessly as
she could. Heavy iron bars were built into the wall upon the
outside, and she grasped the cold iron with a sense of relief as
she looked out at the quiet stars, and tried to distinguish the
trees which, as she knew, were planted on the other side of the
desolate grass-grown square, along the old wall that stood there,
at that time, like a fortification between the Termini and the
distant city.
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