ll ages; the
same ideas that your father's old antagonist, Marsilio Ficino, pores
over in the New Platonists; only your brother's passionate nature drove
him to act out what other men write and talk about. And for Fra
Girolamo, he is simply a narrow-minded monk, with a gift of preaching
and infusing terror into the multitude. Any words or any voice would
have shaken you at that moment. When your mind has had a little repose,
you will judge of such things as you have always done before."

"Not about poor Dino," said Romola. "I was angry with him; my heart
seemed to close against him while he was speaking; but since then I have
thought less of what was in my own mind and more of what was in his.
Oh, Tito! it was very piteous to see his young life coming to an end in
that way. That yearning look at the crucifix when he was gasping for
breath--I can never forget it. Last night I looked at the crucifix a
long while, and tried to see that it would help him, until at last it
seemed to me by the lamplight as if the suffering face shed pity."

"My Romola, promise me to resist such thoughts; they are fit for sickly
nuns, not for my golden-tressed Aurora, who looks made to scatter all
such twilight fantasies. Try not to think of them now; we shall not
long be alone together."

The last words were uttered in a tone of tender beseeching, and he
turned her face towards him with a gentle touch of his right-hand.

Romola had had her eyes fixed absently on the arched opening, but she
had not seen the distant hill; she had all the while been in the chapter
house, looking at the pale images of sorrow and death.

Tito's touch and beseeching voice recalled her; and now in the warm
sunlight she saw that rich dark beauty which seemed to gather round it
all images of joy--purple vines festooned between the elms, the strong
corn perfecting itself under the vibrating heat, bright winged creatures
hurrying and resting among the flowers, round limbs beating the earth in
gladness with cymbals held aloft, light melodies chanted to the
thrilling rhythm of strings--all objects and all sounds that tell of
Nature revelling in her force. Strange, bewildering transition from
those pale images of sorrow and death to this bright youthfulness, as of
a sun-god who knew nothing of night! What thought could reconcile that
worn anguish in her brother's face--that straining after something
invisible--with this satisfied strength and beauty, and make