“Tell us where you are and why you are crying.” The quiet insistent voice of Professor Cohen seemed to Sam a terrible intrusion on her grief, but to his surprise she turned and looked straight at him. Her face had become haggard and old. “William,” she said again, and then gave a long desperate cry that tore through Sam, turning his guts to water. “ William! ” Slowly she raised her hands and stared at them. Sam dragged his eyes from her face and looked too. As he did so he heard a gasp and realized with a shock that the sound had come from his own throat.

Her hands had begun to bleed.

Electrified, he pushed himself away from the window and reached out toward her, but a sharp word from Cohen stopped him.

“Don’t touch her. Don’t do anything. It’s incredible. Incredible,” the older man breathed. “It’s autosuggestion, the stigmata of religious fanatics. I’ve never seen it before. Incredible!”

Sam stood only feet from her as she swayed once again, cradling her hands against her chest as if to ease their pain. Then, shivering uncontrollably, she fell to her knees. “William, don’t leave me. Oh, God, save my child,” she whispered brokenly. “Let someone come. Please…bring us…bring him…food. Please…I’m so cold…so cold…” Her voice trailed away to a sob and slowly she subsided onto the floor. “Oh, God…have mercy on…me.” Her fingers grasped convulsively at the rush matting that carpeted the room, and Sam stared in horror as the blood seeped from her hands onto the sisal, soaking into the fibers, congealing as she lay there emitting dry, convulsive sobs.

“Joanna? Joanna!” Cohen knelt awkwardly beside her, and, defying his own instructions, he laid his hand on her shoulder. “Joanna, lass, I want you to listen to me.” His face was compassionate as he touched her, lifting a strand of her heavy dark hair, gently stroking her cheek.