EPILOGUE
The verdant landscape of Central Italy swings past the train that carries me homeward. The looped vines—like slim green dancers holding hands—speed backwards as we pass. Far behind me lies the white prison of Trani; and the memory of Marie Tarnowska and of her sins and woes drifts away from me, like some shipwrecked barque, storm-tossed and sinking, that I have gazed upon, powerless to help.
The long summer day is drawing to its close; above the Apennines where the sky is lightest the new moon floats like a little boat of amber on an opal sea. Like a fragment of a dream the song returns to my memory, the childish song of which I have never heard and shall never hear more than the first two lines:
When little children sleep, the Virgin Mary
Steps with white feet upon the crescent moon...
As the train carries me homeward, back to the joys of life and love and freedom, back to the welcome of friends and the safety of a sheltered hearth, I think once more of her whom I have left in the gloom of her prison cell.
Soon, very soon, the hour of her release will strike, and the iron doors that have guarded her will open wide to let her pass.
What then, what then, Marie Tarnowska?
Who will await you at the prison gate? Surely Grief, Scorn, and Hatred will be there. But by your side I seem to see a guardian spirit, shielding your drooping head with outstretched wings. It is the sister of lost Innocence—Repentance; and in her wake comes the blind singer, Hope.
Transcriber's Note
Original spelling, even where inconsistent, and punctuation have been preserved.
Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.