e within their walls, and had found deliverance. And grateful
honour had been done to her and her ancient church of L'Impruneta; the
high house of Buondelmonti, patrons of the church, had to guard her
hidden image with bare sword; wealth had been poured out for prayers at
her shrine, for chantings, and chapels, and ever-burning lights; and
lands had been added, till there was much quarrelling for the privilege
of serving her. The Florentines were deeply convinced of her
graciousness to them, so that the sight of her tabernacle within their
walls was like the parting of the cloud, and the proverb ran, that the
Florentines had a Madonna who would do what they pleased.

When were they in more need of her pleading pity than now? And already,
the evening before, the tabernacle containing the miraculous hidden
image had been brought with high and reverend escort from L'Impruneta,
the privileged spot six miles beyond the gate of San Piero that looks
towards Rome, and had been deposited in the church of San Gaggio,
outside the gate, whence it was to be fetched in solemn procession by
all the fraternities, trades, and authorities of Florence.

But the Pitying Mother had not yet entered within the walls, and the
morning arose on unchanged misery and despondency. Pestilence was
hovering in the track of famine. Not only the hospitals were full, but
the courtyards of private houses had been turned into refuges and
infirmaries; and still there was unsheltered want. And early this
morning, as usual, members of the various fraternities who made it part
of their duty to bury the unfriended dead, were bearing away the corpses
that had sunk by the wayside. As usual, sweet womanly forms, with the
refined air and carriage of the well-born, but in the plainest garb,
were moving about the streets on their daily errands of tending the sick
and relieving the hungry.

One of these forms was easily distinguishable as Romola de' Bardi. Clad
in the simplest garment of black serge, with a plain piece of black
drapery drawn over her head, so as to hide all her hair, except the
bands of gold that rippled apart on her brow, she was advancing from the
Ponte Vecchio towards the Por' Santa Maria--the street in a direct line
with the bridge--when she found her way obstructed by the pausing of a
bier, which was being carried by members of the company of San Jacopo
del Popolo, in search for the unburied dead. The brethren at the head
of the bier w