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 po