Instantly I began to
write. Breathlessly I wrote for hours. I exceeded our limit ten
times over. The poor Italian Count, the victim of political
offences, shut by Napoleon from the wonderful grounds, mansion, and
life that were his, restricted to the bare prison walls of
Fenestrella, deprived of books and writing material, his one
interest in life became a sprout of green, sprung, no doubt, from
a seed dropped by a passing bird, between the stone flagging of the
prison yard before his window. With him I had watched over it
through all the years since I first had access to the book; with
him I had prayed for it. I had broken into a cold sweat of fear
when the jailer first menaced it; I had hated the wind that bent it
roughly, and implored the sun. I had sung a paean of joy at its
budding, and worshipped in awe before its thirty perfect blossoms.
The Count had named it `Picciola'--the little one--to me also it was
a personal possession. That night we lived the life of our `little
one' over again, the Count and I, and never were our anxieties and
our joys more poignant.
"Next morning," says Mrs. Porter, "I dared my crowd to see how long
they could remain on the grounds, and yet reach the assembly room
before the last toll of the bell. This scheme worked. Coming in so
late the principal opened exercises without remembering my paper.
Again, at noon, I was as late as I dared be, and I escaped until
near the close of the exercises, through which I sat in cold fear.
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