the house?" demanded her husband. Antonia set the boy on the floor in a corner, where he sat, crying from fear and stifling his sobs, while she proceeded to hurry about the room, setting the table with trembling hands; she brought out some bread and a bottle of wine, and removed the pot of codfish from the fire, making herself a willing slave in the hope of placating the enemy. The convict took his seat and proceeded to eat voraciously, helping himself to repeated draughts of wine. She remained standing, staring in fascination at the hard, parchment-like face, with close-clipped hair, and the unmistakable prison pallor. He filled glass again and reached it towards her.
"No, I don't want it," stammered Antonia, for the wine, where the candlelight fell upon it, seemed to her imagination like a pool of blood.
He drank it himself, with a shrug of his shoulders, and replenished his plate with the codfish, which he consumed, greedily, feeding himself with his fingers and devouring huge slices of bread. His wife watched him as he ate, and a faint hope began to dawn in her heart. As soon as he had finished his meal, he might go out without killing her; in that case, she would lock and bar the door, and if he tried to come back to kill her, it would rouse the neighbors and they would hear her screams. Only it was quite likely that she would find it impossible to scream! She hawked repeatedly in order to clear her voice. Her husband, having eaten his fill, drew a cigar from his pocket, pinched off the tip with
