when romola arrived at the entrance of san marco she found one of the frati waiting there in expectation of her arrival. monna brigida retired into the adjoining church, and romola was conducted to the door of the chapter-house in the outer cloister, whither the invalid had been conveyed; no woman being allowed admission beyond this precinct.

when the door opened, the subdued external light blending with that of two tapers placed behind a truckle-bed, showed the emaciated face of fra luca, with the tonsured crown of golden hair above it, and with deep-sunken hazel eyes fixed on a small crucifix which he held before him. he was propped up into nearly a sitting posture; and romola was just conscious, as she threw aside her veil, that there was another monk standing by the bed, with the black cowl drawn over his head, and that he moved towards the door as she entered; just conscious that in the background there was a crucified form rising high and pale on the frescoed wall, and pale faces of sorrow looking out from it below.

the next moment her eyes met fra luca’s as they looked up at her from the crucifix, and she was absorbed in that pang of recognition which identified this monkish emaciated form with the image of her fair young brother.

‘dino!’ she said, in a voice like a low cry of pain. but she did not bend towards him; she held herself erect, and paused at two yards’ distance from him. there was an unconquerable repulsion for her in that monkish aspect; it seemed to her the brand of the dastardly undutifulness which had left her father desolate — of the grovelling superstition which could give such undutifulness the name of piety. her father, whose proud sincerity and simplicity of life had made him one of the few frank pagans of his time, had brought her up with a silent ignoring of any claims the church could have to regulate the belief and action of beings with a cultivated reason. the church, in her mind, belonged to that actual life of the mixed multitude from which they had always lived apart, and she had no ideas that could render her brother’s course an object of any other feeling than incurious, indignant contempt. yet the lovingness of romola’s soul had clung to that image in the past, and while she stood rigidly aloof, there was a yearning search in her eyes for something too faintly discernible.

but there was no corresponding emotion in the face of the monk. he looked at the little sister returned to him in her full womanly beauty, with the far-off gaze of a revisiting spirit.

‘my sister!’ he said, with a feeble and interrupted but yet distinct utterance, ‘it is well thou hast not longer delayed to come, for i have a message to deliver to thee, and my time is short.’

romola took a step nearer: the message, she thought, would be one of affectionate penitence to her father, and her heart began to open. nothing could wipe out the long years of desertion; but the culprit, looking back on those years with the sense of irremediahle wrong committed, would call forth pity. now, at the last, there would be understanding and forgiveness. dino would pour out some natural filial feeling; he would ask questions about his father’s blindness — how rapidly it had come on? how the long dark days had been filled? what the life was now in the home where he himself had been nourished? — and the last message from the dying lips would be one of tenderness and regret.

‘romola,’ fra luca began, ‘i have had a vision concerning thee. thrice i have had it in the last two months: each time it has been clearer. therefore i came from fiesole, deeming it a message from heaven that i was bound to deliver. and i gather a promise of mercy to thee in this, that my breath is preserved in order to —’

the difficult breathing which continually interrupted him would not let him finish the sentence.

romola had felt her heart chilling again. it was a vision, then, this message — one of those visions she had so often heard her father allude to with bitterness. her indignation rushed to her lips.

‘dino, i thought you had some words to send to my father. you forsook him when his sight was failing; you made his life very desolate. have you never cared about that? never repented? what is this religion of yours, that places visions before natural duties?’

the deep-sunken hazel eyes turned slowly towards her, and rested upon her in silence for some moments, as if he were meditating whether he should answer her.

‘no,’ he said at last; speaking as before, in a low passionless tone, as of some spirit not human, speaking through dying human organs. ‘no; i have never repented fleeing from the stifling poison-breath of sin that was hot and thick around me, and threatened to steal over my senses like besotting wine. my father could not hear the voice that called me night and day; he knew nothing of the demon-tempters that tried to drag me back from following it. my father has lived amidst human sin and misery without believing in them: he has been like one busy picking shining stones in a mine, while there was a world dying of plague above him. i spoke, but he listened with scorn. i told him the studies he wished me to live for were either childish trifling — dead toys — or else they must be made warm and living by pulses that beat to worldly ambitions and fleshly lusts, for worldly ambitions and fleshly lusts made all the substance of the poetry and history he wanted me to bend my eyes on continually.’

‘has not my father led a pure and noble life, then?’ romola burst forth, unable to hear in silence this implied accusation against her father. ‘he has sought no worldly honours; he has been truthful; he has denied himself all luxuries; he has lived like one of the ancient sages. he never wished you to live for worldly ambitions and fleshly lusts; he wished you to live as he himself has done, according to the purest maxims of philosophy, in which he brought you up.’

romola spoke partly by rote, as all ardent and sympathetic young creatures do; but she spoke with intense belief. the pink flush was in her face, and she quivered from head to foot. her brother was again slow to answer; looking at her passionate face with strange passionless eyes.

‘what were the maxims of philosophy to me? they told me to be strong, when i felt myself weak; when i was ready, like the blessed saint benedict, to roll myself among thorns, and court smarting wounds as a deliverance from temptation. for the divine love had sought me, and penetrated me, and created a great need in me; like a seed that wants room to grow. i had been brought up in carelessness of the true faith; i had not studied the doctrines of our religion; but it seemed to take possession of me like a rising flood. i felt that there was a life of perfect love and purity for the soul; in which there would be no uneasy hunger after pleasure, no tormenting questions, no fear of suffering. before i knew the history of the saints, i had a foreshadowing of their ecstasy. for the same truth had penetrated even into pagan philosophy: that it is a bliss within the reach of man to die to mortal needs, and live in the life of god as the unseen perfectness. but to attain that i must forsake the world: i must have no affection, no hope, wedding me to that which passeth away; i must live with my fellow-beings only as human souls related to the eternal unseen life. that need was urging me continually: it came over me in visions when my mind fell away weary from the vain words which record the passions of dead men: it came over me after i had been tempted into sin and had turned away with loathing from the scent of the emptied cup. and in visions i saw the meaning of the crucifix.’

he paused, breathing hard for a minute or two: but romola was not prompted to speak again. it was useless for her mind to attempt any contact with the mind of this unearthly brother: as useless as for her hand to try and grasp a shadow. when he spoke again his heaving chest was quieter.

‘i felt whom i must follow: but i saw that even among the servants of the cross who professed to have renounced the world, my soul would he stifled with the fumes of hypocrisy, and lust, and pride. god had not chosen me, as he chose saint dominic and saint francis, to wrestle with evil in the church and in the world. he called upon me to flee: i took the sacred vows and i fled — fled to lands where danger and scorn and want bore me continually, like angels, to repose on the bosom of god. i have lived the life of a hermit, i have ministered to pilgrims; but my task has been short: the veil has worn very thin that divides me from my everlasting rest. i came back to florence that —’

‘dino, you did want to know if my father was alive,’ interrupted romola, the picture of that suffering life touching her again with the desire for union and forgiveness.

‘— that before i died i might urge others of our brethren to study the eastern tongues, as i had not done, and go out to greater ends than i did; and i find them already bent on the work. and since i came, romola, i have felt that i was sent partly to thee — not to renew the bonds of earthly affection, but to deliver the heavenly warning conveyed in a vision. for i have had that vision thrice. and through all the years since first the divine voice called me, while i was yet in the world, i have been taught and guided by visions. for in the painful linking together of our waking thoughts we can never be sure that we have not mingled our own error with the light we have prayed for; but in visions and dreams we are passive, and our souls are as an instrument in the divine hand. therefore listen, and speak not again — for the time is short.’

romola’s mind recoiled strongly from listening to this vision. her indignation had subsided, but it was only because she had felt the distance between her brother and herself widening. but while fra luca was speaking, the figure of another monk had entered, and again stood on the other side of the bed, with the cowl drawn over his head.

‘kneel, my daughter, for the angel of death is present, and waits while the message of heaven is delivered: bend thy pride before it is bent for thee by a yoke of iron,’ said a strong rich voice, startingly in contrast with fra luca’s.

the tone was not that of imperious command, but of quiet self-possession and assurance of the right, blended with benignity. romola, vibrating to the sound, looked round at the figure on the opposite side of the bed. his face was hardly discernible under the shadow of the cowl, and her eyes fell at once on his hands, which were folded across his breast and lay in relief on the edge of his black mantle. they had a marked physiognomy which enforced the influence of the voice: they were very beautiful and almost of transparent delicacy. romola’s disposition to rebel against command, doubly active in the presence of monks, whom she had been taught to despise, would have fixed itself on any repulsive detail as a point of support. but the face was hidden, and the hands seemed to have an appeal in them against all hardness. the next moment the right hand took the crucifix to relieve the fatigued grasp of fra luca, and the left touched his lips with a wet sponge which lay near. in the act of bending, the cowl was pushed back, and the features of the monk had the full light of the tapers on them. they were very marked features, such as lend themselves to popular description. there was the high arched nose, the prominent under lip, the coronet of thick dark hair above the brow, all seeming to tell of energy and passion; there were the blue-grey eyes, shining mildly under auburn eyelashes, seeming, like the hands, to tell of acute sensitiveness. romola felt certain they were the features of fra girolamo savonarola, the prior of san marco, whom she had chiefly thought of as more offensive than other monks, because he was more noisy. her rebellion was rising against the first impression, which had almost forced her to bend her knees.

‘kneel, my daughter,’ the penetrating voice said again, ‘the pride of the body is a barrier against the gifts that purify the soul.’

he was looking at her with mild fixedness while he spoke, and again she felt that subtle mysterious influence of a personality by which it has been given to some rare men to move their fellows.

slowly romola fell on her knees, and in the very act a tremor came over her; in the renunciation of her proud erectness, her mental attitude seemed changed, and she found herself in a new state of passiveness. her brother began to speak again —

‘romola, in the deep night, as i lay awake, i saw my father’s room — the library — with all the books and the marbles and the leggio, where i used to stand and read; and i saw you — you were revealed to me as i see you now, with fair long hair, sitting before my father’s chair. and at the leggio stood a man whose face i could not see. i looked, and looked, and it was a blank to me, even as a painting effaced; and i saw him move and take thee, romola, by the hand; and then i saw thee take my father by the hand; and you all three went down the stone steps into the streets, the man whose face was a blank to me leading the way. and you stood at the altar in santa croce, and the priest who married you had the face of death; and the graves opened, and the dead in their shrouds rose and followed you like a bridal train. and you passed on through the streets and the gates into the valley, and it seemed to me that he who led you hurried you more than you could bear, and the dead were weary of following you, and turned back to their graves. and at last you came to a stony place where there was no water, and no trees or herbage; but instead of water, i saw written parchment unrolling itself everywhere, and instead of trees and herbage i saw men of bronze and marble springing up and crowding round you. and my father was faint for want of water and fell to the ground; and the man whose face was a blank loosed thy hand and departed: and as he went i could see his face; and it was the face of the great tempter. and thou, romola, didst wring thy hands and seek for water, and there was none. and the bronze and marble figures seemed to mock thee and hold out cups of water, and when thou didst grasp them and put them to my father’s lips, they turned to parchment. and the bronze and marble figures seemed to turn into demons and snatch my father’s body from thee, and the parchments shrivelled up, and blood ran everywhere instead of them, and fire upon the blood, till they all vanished, and the plain was bare and stony again, and thou wast alone in the midst of it. and then it seemed that the night fell and i saw no more . . . thrice i have had that vision, romola. i believe it is a revelation meant for thee: to warn thee against marriage as a temptation of the enemy; it calls upon thee to dedicate thyself —’

his pauses had gradually become longer and more frequent, and he was now compelled to cease by a severe fit of gasping, in which his eyes were turned on the crucifix as on a light that was vanishing. presently he found strength to speak again, but in a feebler, scarcely audible tone.

‘to renounce the vain philosophy and corrupt thoughts of the heathens: for in the hour of sorrow and death their pride will turn to mockery, and the unclean gods will —’

the words died away.

in spite of the thought that was at work in romola, telling her that this vision was no more than a dream, fed by youthful memories and ideal convictions, a strange awe had come over her. her mind was not apt to be assailed by sickly fancies; she had the vivid intellect and the healthy human passion, which are too keenly alive to the constant relations of 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 ber 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.

it seemed to her as if this first vision of death must alter the daylight for her for evermore.

fra girolamo moved towards the door, and called in a lay brother who was waiting outside. then he went up to romola and said in a tone of gentle command, ‘rise, my daughter, and be comforted. our brother is with the blessed. he has left you the crucifix, in remembrance of the heavenly warning — that it may be a beacon to you in the darkness.’

she rose from her knees, trembling, folded her veil over her head, and hid the crucifix under her mantle. fra girolamo then led the way out into the cloistered court, lit now only by the stars and by a lantern which was held by some one near the entrance. several other figures in the dress of the dignified laity were grouped about the same spot. they were some of the numerous frequenters of san marco, who had come to visit the prior, and having heard that he was in attendance on the dying brother in the chapter-house, had awaited him here.

romola was dimly conscious of footsteps and rustling forms moving aside: she heard the voice of fra girolamo saying, in a low tone, ‘our brother is departed;’ she felt a hand laid on her arm. the next moment the door was opened, and she was out in the wide piazza of san marco, with no one but monna brigida, and the servant carrying the lantern.

the fresh sense of space revived her, and helped her to recover her self-mastery. the scene which had just closed upon her was terribly distinct and vivid, but it began to narrow under the returning impressions of the life that lay outside it. she hastened her steps, with nervous anxiety to be again with her father — and with tito — for were they not together in her absence? the images of that vision, while they clung about her like a hideous dream not yet to be shaken off, made her yearn all the more for the beloved faces and voices that would assure her of her waking life.

tito, we know, was not with bardo; his destiny was being shaped by a guilty consciousness, urging on him the despairing belief that by this time romola possessed the knowledge which would lead to their final separation.

and the lips that could have conveyed that knowledge were for ever closed. the prevision that fra luca’s words had imparted to romola had been such as comes from the shadowy region where human souls seek wisdom apart from the human sympathies which are the very life and substance of our wisdom; the revelation that might have come from the simple questions of filial and brotherly affection had been carried into irrevocable silence.