"Now, in the hovel beyond Zembin, where I was so well received, this
captain was sitting opposite to me, and his wife was at the other end
of the table, facing the Colonel. This Sicilian was a little woman
named Rosina, very dark, but with all the fire of the Southern sun in
her black almond-shaped eyes. At this moment she was deplorably thin;
her face was covered with dust, like fruit exposed to the drought of a
highroad. Scarcely clothed in rags, exhausted by marches, her hair in
disorder, and clinging together under a piece of a shawl tied close
over her head, still she had the graces of a woman; her movements were
engaging, her small rose mouth and white teeth, the outline of her
features and figure, charms which misery, cold, and neglect had not
altogether defaced, still suggested love to any man who could think of
a woman. Rosina had one of those frames which are fragile in
appearance, but wiry and full of spring. Her husband, a gentleman of
Piedmont, had a face expressive of ironical simplicity, if it is
allowable to ally the two words. Brave and well informed, he seemed to
know nothing of the connections which had subsisted between his wife
and the Colonel for three years past.
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