things to have any morbid craving after the exceptional. Still the images of the vision she despised jarred and distressed her like painful and cruel cries. And it was the first time she had witnessed the struggle with approaching death: her young life had been sombre, but she had known nothing of the utmost human needs; no acute suffering—no heart-cutting sorrow; and this brother, come back to 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.