CHAPTER XVII.
_-_Capital_O.png)
N the following morning she was sitting outside the tombs, plaiting the biodo,[1] with her mind still darkened and her spirits still troubled by the treachery of Zefferino. Her rage had been like a styptic, and in a measure had cauterised the pain she felt, but it was sorrow as much as wrath that filled her heart this morning; she had been fond of the child and had trusted him, and he had sold for silver her secret, her peace, her safety; since all security for her depended, as she knew well, on no one being aware of the existence of the sepulchres.
It was, therefore, with heavy and anxious thoughts that she plaited on at her rushes in
