her as he? His errors--might they not bring calamities?

She could not rest. She hardly knew whether it was her strength
returning with the budding leaves that made her active again, or whether
it was her eager longing to get nearer Florence. She did not imagine
herself daring to enter Florence, but the desire to be near enough to
learn what was happening there urged itself with a strength that
excluded all other purposes.

And one March morning the people in the valley were gathered together to
see the blessed Lady depart. Jacopo had fetched a mule for her, and was
going with her over the mountains. The Padre, too, was going with her
to the nearest town, that he might help her in learning the safest way
by which she might get to Pistoja. Her store of trinkets and money,
untouched in this valley, was abundant for her needs.

If Romola had been less drawn by the longing that was taking her away,
it would have been a hard moment for her when she walked along the
village street for the last time, while the Padre and Jacopo, with the
mule, were awaiting her near the well. Her steps were hindered by the
wailing people, who knelt and kissed her hands, then clung to her skirts
and kissed the grey folds, crying, "Ah, why will you go, when the good
season is beginning and the crops will be plentiful? Why will you go?"

"Do not be sorry," said Romola, "you are well now, and I shall remember
you. I must go and see if my own people want me."

"Ah, yes, if they have the pestilence!"

"Look at us again, Madonna!"

"Yes, yes, we will be good to the little Benedetto!"

At last Romola mounted her mule, but a vigorous screaming from Benedetto
as he saw her turn from him in this new position, was an excuse for all
the people to follow her and insist that he must ride on the mule's neck
to the foot of the slope.

The parting must come at last, but as Romola turned continually before
she passed out of sight, she saw the little flock lingering to catch the
last waving of her hand.

CHAPTER SEVENTY.

MEETING AGAIN.

On the fourteenth of April Romola was once more within the walls of
Florence. Unable to rest at Pistoja, where contradictory reports
reached her about the Trial by Fire, she had gone on to Prato; and was
beginning to think that she should be drawn on to Florence in spite of
dread, when she encountered that monk of San Spirito who had been her
godfather's confessor. From him she learned the full story o