"Since last we held a consultation in Livorno some months ago, much has occurred, and it is necessary for us once again to review the situation. Most of us have had severe trials; more than one has fallen beneath the vengeance of our enemies; and more than one is now in penal servitude on Gorgona, that rocky island which lies within sight of the land we all of us love. Well, our ranks are thinner, indeed. Of our twenty-one brothers and sisters who met for the first time in Livorno three years ago only eight now remain. Yet we may accomplish much, for not one of us knows fear; all have been already tried and found staunch and true." "Are you sure there is no traitor among us?" Gemma asked, in a clear intense voice, her pointed chin resting upon her white palm as she listened to his speech. "Whom do you suspect?" Nenci demanded, darting a quick look at her. "I suspect no one," she answered. "But in this desperate crisis we must, if we would successfully accomplish our object, have perfect faith in one another." "So we have," Malvano said. "Here in London we are in absolute security. We have sacrificed enough, Heaven knows! Thirteen of us are already either in prison, or dead." Gemma sighed. She herself had been compelled to sacrifice a man's passionate love, her own happiness and all that made life worth living, because of her connexion with this mysterious band which had its headquarters among the working class in London, and whose ramifications were felt in every part of Italy. She lifted her beautiful face once again. She was pale and desperate. "Thirteen is an unlucky number," remarked the Gobbo grimly. "For the dead, yes. But eight of us are still living," Malvano said. "By the holy Virgin! it's a desperate game we are playing," Nenci's wife exclaimed. "Shut your mouth," growled her husband roughly. "When your opinion is required, we'll ask for it." She was a slim, fragile woman, with a pale face full of romance, black eyes that flashed like gems, and a profusion of dark, frizzy hair, worn with those three thin spiral curls falling over the brow, in the manner of all the Livornesi. Even though she existed in squalid Walworth, she still preserved in the mode of dressing her hair the fashion she had been used to since a child. In that drab, mournful street, she sighed often for her own home in gay, happy, far-off Livorno, with its great Piazza, where she loved to gossip; its fine old cathedral, where she had so often knelt to the Madonna; its leafy Passeggio where, with her friends, she would stroll and watch the summer sun sinking into the Mediterranean behind the grey distant islands. When her husband spoke thus roughly she exchanged glances across the table with Gemma, and her dark, sad eyes became filled with tears.