e before him to the pavement at his feet, those who had observed his
entrance presently ceased to regard him, and became absorbed again in
the stronger interest of listening to the sermon.

Among the eyes that had been turned towards him were Romola's: she had
entered late through one of the side doors and was so placed that she
had a full view of the main entrance. She had looked long and
attentively at Baldassarre, for grey hairs made a peculiar appeal to
her, and the stamp of some unwonted suffering in the face, confirmed by
the cord round his neck, stirred in her those sensibilities towards the
sorrows of age, which her whole life had tended to develop. She fancied
that his eyes had met hers in their first wandering gaze; but
Baldassarre had not, in reality, noted her; he had only had a startled
consciousness of the general scene, and the consciousness was a mere
flash that made no perceptible break in the fierce tumult of emotion
which the encounter with Tito had created. Images from the past kept
urging themselves upon him like delirious visions strangely blended with
thirst and anguish. No distinct thought for the future could shape
itself in the midst of that fiery passion: the nearest approach to such
thought was the bitter sense of enfeebled powers, and a vague
determination to universal distrust and suspicion. Suddenly he felt
himself vibrating to loud tones, which seemed like the thundering echo
of his own passion. A voice that penetrated his very marrow with its
accent of triumphant certitude was saying--"The day of vengeance is at
hand!"

Baldassarre quivered and looked up. He was too distant to see more than
the general aspect of the preacher standing, with his right arm
outstretched, lifting up the crucifix; but he panted for the threatening
voice again as if it had been a promise of bliss. There was a pause
before the preacher spoke again. He gradually lowered his arm. He
deposited the crucifix on the edge of the pulpit, and crossed his arms
over his breast, looking round at the multitude as if he would meet the
glance of every individual face.

"All ye in Florence are my witnesses, for I spoke not in a corner. Ye
are my witnesses, that four years ago, when there were yet no signs of
war and tribulation, I preached the coming of the scourge. I lifted up
my voice as a trumpet to the prelates and princes and people of Italy
and said, The cup of your iniquity is full. Behold, the thunder of