She watched the captain tuck the pistol back in his pocket, and perch on the edge of the big desk. She refused to accept her fate, but what is it that she could do about it? Night after night she invented alternatives. Who could guarantee a safer existence outside Florence? That Sebastian seemed to have a weird immunity to the Pestilence was a trait that went unquestioned, unanswered. The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years. "Vill this do?" demanded the constable, taking the candle from the lantern, the better to display the narrow limits of the hole.
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