her
in his hour of supreme agony, was like a sudden awful apparition from an
invisible world. The pale faces of sorrow in the fresco on the opposite
wall seemed to have come nearer, and to make one company with the pale
face on the bed.

"Frate," said the dying voice.

Fra Girolamo leaned down. But no other word came for some moments.

"Romola," it said next.

She leaned forward too: but again there was silence. The words were
struggling in vain.

"Fra Girolamo, give her--"

"The crucifix," said the voice of Fra Girolamo.

No other sound came from the dying lips.

"Dino!" said Romola, with a low but piercing cry, as the certainty came
upon her that the silence of misunderstanding could never be broken.

"Take the crucifix, my daughter," said Fra Girolamo, after a few
minutes. "His eyes behold it no more."

Romola stretched out her hand to the crucifix, and this act appeared to
relieve the tension of her mind. A great sob burst from her. She bowed
her head by the side of her dead brother, and wept aloud.

It seemed to her as if this first vision of death must alter the
daylight for her for evermore.

Fra Girolamo moved towards the door, and called in a lay Brother who was
waiting outside. Then he went up to Romola and said in a tone of gentle
command, "Rise, my daughter, and be comforted. Our brother is with the
blessed. He has left you the crucifix, in remembrance of the heavenly
warning--that it may be a beacon to you in the darkness."

She rose from her knees, trembling, folded her veil over her head, and
hid the crucifix under her mantle. Fra Girolamo then led the way out
into the cloistered court, lit now only by the stars and by a lantern
which was held by some one near the entrance. Several other figures in
the dress of the dignified laity were grouped about the same spot. They
were some of the numerous frequenters of San Marco, who had come to
visit the Prior, and having heard that he was in attendance on the dying
Brother in the chapter-house, had awaited him here.

Romola was dimly conscious of footsteps and rustling forms moving aside:
she heard the voice of Fra Girolamo saying, in a low tone, "Our brother
is departed;" she felt a hand laid on her arm. The next moment the door
was opened, and she was out in the wide piazza of San Marco, with no one
but Monna Brigida, and the servant carrying the lantern.

The fresh sense of space revived her, and helped her to recover her
self-m