th her as she passed through the streets on her
way to the early sermon in the Duomo: but there she gradually lost the
sense of its chill presence, as men lose the dread of death in the clash
of battle.

In the Duomo she felt herself sharing in a passionate conflict which had
wider relations than any enclosed within the walls of Florence. For
Savonarola was preaching--preaching the last course of Lenten sermons he
was ever allowed to finish in the Duomo: he knew that excommunication
was imminent, and he had reached the point of defying it. He held up
the condition of the Church in the terrible mirror of his unflinching
speech, which called things by their right names and dealt in no polite
periphrases; he proclaimed with heightening confidence the advent of
renovation--of a moment when there would be a general revolt against
corruption. As to his own destiny, he seemed to have a double and
alternating prevision: sometimes he saw himself taking a glorious part
in that revolt, sending forth a voice that would be heard through all
Christendom, and making the dead body of the Church tremble into new
life, as the body of Lazarus trembled when the Divine voice pierced the
sepulchre; sometimes he saw no prospect for himself but persecution and
martyrdom:--this life for him was only a vigil, and only after death
would come the dawn.

The position was one which must have had its impressiveness for all
minds that were not of the dullest order, even if they were inclined, as
Macchiavelli was, to interpret the Frate's character by a key that
presupposed no loftiness. To Romola, whose kindred ardour gave her a
firm belief in Savonarola's genuine greatness of purpose, the crisis was
as stirring as if it had been part of her personal lot. It blent itself
as an exalting memory with all her daily labours; and those labours were
calling not only for difficult perseverance, but for new courage.
Famine had never yet taken its flight from Florence, and all distress,
by its long continuance, was getting harder to bear; disease was
spreading in the crowded city, and the Plague was expected. As Romola
walked, often in weariness, among the sick, the hungry, and the
murmuring, she felt it good to be inspired by something more than her
pity--by the belief in a heroism struggling for sublime ends, towards
which the daily action of her pity could only tend feebly, as the dews
that freshen the weedy ground to-day tend to prepare an unseen har