Note: Translator Pauline Bancroft Flach died in 1966, less than 70 years ago. Therefore, this work is protected by copyright, restricting your legal rights to reproduce it. However, you are welcome to view it on screen, as you do now. Read more about copyright.
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258 THE MIRACLES OF ANTICHRIST ’
She asked Gandolfo to shut her in in one of the
cells and to leave her there for the space of five
minutes.
“Now I am a prisoner,” she said, when she was
left alone. She tried the door; she tried the
window. She was securely shut in.
So that was what it was to be a prisoner! Four
empty walls about one, the silence of the grave, and
the chill.
“Now I can feel as a prisoner feels,” she
thought.
Then she forgot everything else in the thought
that possibly Gandolfo might not come to let her
out. He could be called away; he could be taken
suddenly ill; he could fall and kill himself in some
of the dark passage-ways. Many things could
happen to prevent him from coming.
No one knew where she was; no one would think
of looking for her in that out-of-the-way cell. If
she were left there for even an hour she would go
mad with terror.
She saw before her starvation, slow starvation.
She struggled through interminable hours of anguish.
Ah, how she would listen for a step; how she would
call!
She would shake the door; she would scrape the
masonry of the walls with her nails; she would bite
the grating with her teeth.
When they finally found her she would be lying
dead on the floor, and they would find everywhere
traces of how she had tried to break her way out.
Why did not Gandolfo come? Now she must
have been there a quarter of an hour, a half-hour.
Why did he not come?
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