EPILOGUE.
"GEMMA, there's a man downstairs who wants
to see you." Martini spoke in the subdued tone
which they had both unconsciously adopted during
these last ten days. That, and a certain slow
evenness of speech and movement, were the sole
expression which either of them gave to their grief.
Gemma, with bare arms and an apron over her
dress, was standing at a table, putting up little
packages of cartridges for distribution. She had
stood over the work since early morning; and
now, in the glaring afternoon, her face looked haggard
with fatigue.
"A man, Cesare? What does he want?"
"I don't know, dear. He wouldn't tell me.
He said he must speak to you alone."
"Very well." She took off her apron and
pulled down the sleeves of her dress. "I must go
to him, I suppose; but very likely it's only a spy."
"In any case, I shall be in the next room, within
call. As soon as you get rid of him you had better
go and lie down a bit. You have been standing
too long to-day.
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