ying in the boat which had
been bearing her over the waters all through the night. Instead of
bringing her to death, it had been the gently lulling cradle of a new
life. And in spite of her evening despair she was glad that the morning
had come to her again: glad to think that she was resting in the
familiar sunlight rather than in the unknown regions of death. _Could_
she not rest here? No sound from Florence would reach her. Already
oblivion was troubled; from behind the golden haze were piercing domes
and towers and walls, parted by a river and enclosed by the green hills.

She rose from her reclining posture and sat up in the boat, willing, if
she could, to resist the rush of thoughts that urged themselves along
with the conjecture how far the boat had carried her. Why need she
mind? This was a sheltered nook where there were simple villagers who
would not harm her. For a little while, at least, she might rest and
resolve on nothing. Presently she would go and get some bread and milk,
and then she would nestle in the green quiet, and feel that there was a
pause in her life. She turned to watch the crescent-shaped valley, that
she might get back the soothing sense of peace and beauty which she had
felt in her first waking.

She had not been in this attitude of contemplation more than a few
minutes when across the stillness there came a piercing cry; not a brief
cry, but continuous and more and more intense. Romola felt sure it was
the cry of a little child in distress that no one came to help. She
started up and put one foot on the side of the boat ready to leap on to
the beach; but she paused there and listened: the mother of the child
must be near, the cry must soon cease. But it went on, and drew Romola
so irresistibly, seeming the more piteous to her for the sense of peace
which had preceded it, that she jumped on to the beach and walked many
paces before she knew what direction she would take. The cry, she
thought, came from some rough garden growth many yards on her
right-hand, where she saw a half-ruined hovel. She climbed over a low
broken stone fence, and made her way across patches of weedy green crops
and ripe but neglected corn. The cry grew plainer, and convinced that
she was right she hastened towards the hovel; but even in that hurried
walk she felt an oppressive change in the air as she left the sea
behind. Was there some taint lurking amongst the green luxuriance that
had seemed suc