little fingers as these?” she held up Faustina’s passive hand in her own, before their eyes.  “A man does not die in an instant by strangling.  He struggles, he strikes desperate blows, he turns to the right and the left, twisting himself with all his might.  Could this child have held him?  I ask it of your common sense.  I ask of your heart whether a creature that God has made so fair, so beautiful, so innocent, could do such terrible work.  The woman who could do such things would bear the sign of her badness in her face, and the fear of what she had done in her soul.  She would tremble, she would have tried to escape, she would hesitate in her story, she would contradict herself, break down, attempt to shed false tears, act as only a woman who has committed a first great crime could act.  And this child stands here, submitted to this fearful ordeal, defended by none, but defending herself with the whole innocence of her nature, the glory of truth in her eyes, the self-conscious courage of a stainless life in her heart.  Is this assumed?  Is this put on?  You have seen murderers—­it is your office to see them—­ did you ever see one like her?  Do you not know the outward tokens of guilt when they are before your eyes?  You would do a thing that is monstrous in absurdity, monstrous in cruelty, revolting to reason, outrageous to every instinct of human nature.  Search, inquire, ask questions, arrest whom you will, but leave this child in peace; this child, with her angel face, her fearless eyes, her guiltless heart!”

Encouraged by Corona’s determined manner as well as by the good sense of her arguments, the timid flock of relations expressed their approval audibly.  Giovanni looked at his wife in some surprise; for he had never heard her make so long a speech before, and had not suspected her of the ability she displayed.  He was proud of her in that moment and moved nearer to her, as though ready to support every word she had uttered.  The prefect alone stood unmoved by her eloquence.  He was accustomed in his profession to hear far more passionate appeals to his sensibilities, and he was moreover a man who, being obliged generally to act quickly, had acquired the habit of acting upon the first impulse of his intelligence.  For a moment his heavy lids were raised a little, either in astonishment or in admiration, but no other feature of his face betrayed that he was touched.

“Signora Principessa,” he said in his usual tone, “those are arguments which may be used with propriety by the persons who will defend the accused before the tribunals—­”

Giovanni laughed in his face.

“Do you suppose, seriously, that Donna Faustina will ever be brought to trial?” he asked scornfully.  The prefect kept his temper wonderfully well.