“It was strange, Tito. The vision was about our marriage, and yet he knew nothing of you.”
“What was it, my Romola? Sit down and tell me,” said Tito, leading her to the bench that stood near. A fear had come across him lest the vision should somehow or other relate to Baldassarre; and this sudden change of feeling prompted him to seek a change of position.
Romola told him all that had passed, from her entrance into San Marco, hardly leaving out one of her brother’s words, which had burnt themselves into her memory as they were spoken.
But when she was at the end of the vision, she paused; the rest came too vividly before her to be uttered, and she sat looking at the distance, almost unconscious for the moment that Tito was near her.
His mind was at ease now; that vague vision had passed over him like white mist, and left no mark. But he was silent, expecting her to speak again.
“I took it,” she went on, as if Tito had been reading her thoughts; “I took the crucifix; it is down below in my bedroom.”
“And now, my Romola,” said Tito, entreatingly, “you will banish these ghastly thoughts. The vision was an ordinary