Without a word she led me through a short passage, and then, striking a
match, lit a big old-fashioned lantern. As the light fell upon her
features I saw they were thin and hard, with deep-set eyes and a stray
wisp of silver across her wrinkled brow. Around her head was a kind of
hood of the same stuff as her dress, a black, coarse woolen, while
around her neck was a broad linen collar. In an instant I recognized
that she was a member of some religious order, some minor order perhaps,
with whose habit we, in Italy, were not acquainted.
The thin ascetic countenance was that of a woman of strong character,
and her funereal habit seemed much too large for her stunted, shrunken
figure.
"The sister speaks French?" I hazarded in that language, knowing that in
most convents throughout Europe French is known.
"Oui, m'sieur," was her answer. "And a leetle Engleesh, too--a ve-ry
leetle," she smiled.
"You know why I am here?" I said, gratified that at least one person in
that lonesome country could speak my own tongue.
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