She wondered if he could see her knees and hands trembling. If only she had accepted Signora Tilia's offer to release her from this. Was it too late? Could she rush past the Tartar to the door and pull it open and run away? If she did that now, doubtless the Tartar would be insulted. From what she knew about these creatures, it would be very dangerous to make him angry. _I will pretend to be sick. When he is not looking, I will stick my finger down my throat and throw up. That will disgust him so, he will leave me alone._ Or it might antagonize him enough to kill her. Her body broke out in a cold sweat. Her eyes were shut, but she heard the monster coming closer. She thought of what he would do to her, and her stomach heaved--she would throw up even without trying to. She hoped he _would_ kill her. Better that than his animal's thing inside her. She opened her eyes, to see that he had stopped halfway between the closed door and the bed. Actually, he was not so hideous. He had a round brown face and bright black eyes, and his beard was white, as Angelo's had been. _Ah, Rachel, Rachel, the joy of my old age_, Angelo would say. _My beard was white before you were born._ _He would not rejoice in his old age if he could see me now._ The Tartar's beard and mustache were not full and flowing, as Angelo's had been, but stringy. The beard almost seemed like a false beard, pasted on that small, sharp chin. He said, "Buona sera, berra feeria." He had learned some Italian. But it was not evening. It was almost morning. And what was he trying to say--"bella figlia?" Beautiful daughter? He had probably asked someone what he should say, and they had told him the wrong things. "Buona sera, Mio Signore," she answered, inclining her head slightly. Her voice was a terrified whisper. When she heard how frightened she sounded, she became more frightened still and huddled into the farthest corner of the bed, wishing she could squeeze through a crack in the wall beside her and disappear. The Tartar tapped his chest, smiling and nodding. "John." He wore a crimson silk tunic that fell to his knees, and over it a pale green gown, open in front, with wide sleeves. When she had stood by a window in the cardinal's palazzo and watched the Tartars' arrival in Orvieto, he and the other Tartar had worn foreign-looking silk robes, blood red, covered with blue birds with long golden tails. Now he was dressed like an Italian. He was still nodding at her, with a questioning look on his face. He wanted her to say her name. "Rachel," she said, touching her chest. How small her breasts were, she thought. He could not possibly want a girl with such small breasts. He certainly would not want to devour them. She felt sick to her stomach again. "Reicho. Buona sera, Reicho." He could not pronounce the letter _l_.