I have always heard my father and godfather say so. Have they be come frequent lately?"

"It is not unlikely they will become frequent, with the bitter hatreds that are being bred continually."

Romola was silent a few moments.

She shrank from insisting further on the subject of the armor. She tried to shake it off.

"Tell me what has happened to-day," she said, in a cheer ful tone. "Has all gone off well?"

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Excellently well. First of all, the rain came and put an end to Luca Corsini's oration, which nobody wanted to hear, and a ready-tongued personage some say it was Gaddi, some say it was Melema, but really it was done so quickly no one knows who it was-had the honor of giving the Cristi anissimo the briefest possible welcome in bad French."

"Tito, it was you, I know," said Romola, smiling brightly and kissing him. "How is it you never care about claiming anything? And after that?

"Oh! after that, there was a shower of armor and jewels, and trappings, such as you saw at the last Florentine goistra, only a great deal more of them. There was strutting, and prancing, and confusion, and scrambling, and the people shouted, and the Cristianissimo smiled from ear to ear. And after that there was a great deal of flattery, and eating, and play. I was at Tornabuoni's. I will tell you about it to

morrow."

"Yes, dearest, never mind now. But is there any more hope that things will end peaceably for Florence, that the Republic will not get into fresh troubles?"

Tito gave a shrug. "Florence will have no peace but what it pays well for; that is clear."

Romola's face saddened, but she checked herself, and said, cheerfully, "You would not guess where I went to-day, Tito. I went to the Duomo, to hear Fra Girolamo."

Tito looked startled; he had immediately thought of Baldassarre's entrance into the Duomo ; but Romolo gave his look another meaning.

"You are surprised, are you not? It was a sudden thought. I want to know all about the public affairs now, and I determined to hear for myself what the Frate promised the people about this French invasion."

"Well, and what did you think of the prophet?"

"He certainly has a very mysterious power, that man.

A great deal of his sermon was what I expected; but once I was strangely moved-I sobbed with the rest."

"Take care Romola," said Tito, playfully, feeling relieved that she had said nothing about Baldassarre ; "you have a touch of fanaticism in you. I shall have you seeing visions, like your brother." :

"No; it was the same with every one else. He carried them all with him unless it were that gross Dolfo Spini, whom I saw there making grimaces, There was even a wretched-looking man, with a rope round his neck-an escaped prisoner, I should think, who had run in for sheltera very wild-eyed old man: I saw him with great tears rolling down his cheeks, as he looked and listened quite eagerly."

There was a slight pause before Tito spoke.

"I saw the man," he said, "the prisoner. I was outside the Duomo with Lorenzo Tornabuoni when he ran in. He had escaped from a French soldier. Did you see him when you came out?"

I

"No, he went out with our good old Piero di Cosimo. saw Piero come in and cut off his rope, and take him out of the church. But you want rest, Tito? You feel ill?"

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"Yes," said Tito, rising.

The horrible sense that he

must live in continual dread of what Baldassarre had said or done pressed upon him like a cold weight.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE PAINTED RECORD.

FOUR days later, Romola was on her way to the house of Piero di Cosimo, in the Via Gualfonda. Some of the streets through which she had to pass were lined with Frenchmen who were gazing at Florence, and with Florentines who were gazing at the French, and the gaze was not on either side entirely friendly and admiring. The first nation in Europe, of necessity finding itself, when out of its own country, in the presence of general inferiority, naturally assumed an air of conscious pre-eminence; and the Florentines, who had taken such pains to play the host amiably, were getting into the worst humor with their too superior guests.

were over

For after the first smiling compliments and festivities after wondrous Mysteries with unrivalled machinery of floating clouds and angels had been presented in churches after the royal guest had honored Florentine dames with much of his Most Christian ogling at balls and suppers, and business had begun to be talked of-it appeared that the New Charlemagne regarded Florence as a conquered city, inasmuch as he had entered it with his lance in rest, talked of leaving his viceroy behind him, and had thoughts of bringing back the Medici. Singular logic this appeared to be on the part of an elect instrument of God! since the policy of Piero de' Medici, disowned by the people, had been the only offence of Florence against the majesty of France. And Florence was determined not to submit. The determination was being expressed very strongly in consultations of citizens inside the Old Palace, and it was beginning to show itself on the broad flags of the streets and piazza wherever there was an opportunity of floating an insolent Frenchman. Under these circumstances the streets were not altogether a pleasant promenade for well-born women; but Romola, shrouded in her black veil and mantle, and with old Maso by her side, felt secure enough from impertinent observation.

А сору

And she was impatient to visit Piero di Cosimo. of her father's portrait as Edipus, which he had long ago undertaken to make for her, was not yet finished; and Piero was so uncertain in his work-sometimes, when the demand was not peremptory, laying aside a picture for months; sometimes thrusting it into a corner or coffer, where it was likely to be utterly forgotten-that she felt it necessary to watch over his progress. She was a favorite with the painter, and he was inclined to fulfil any wish of hers, but no general inclination could be trusted as a safeguard against his sudden whims. He had told her the week before that the picture would perhaps be finished by this time; and Romola was nervously anxious to have in her possession a copy of the only portrait existing of her father in the days of his blindness, lest his image should grow dim in her mind. The sense of defect in her devotedness to him made her cling with all the force of compunction as well as affection to the duties of memory. Love does not aim simply at the conscious good of the beloved object: it is not saitsfied without perfect loyalty of heart; it aims at its own completeness.

Romola, by special favor, was allowed to intrude upon the painter without previous notice. She lifted the iron slide and

called Piero in a flute like tone, as the little maiden with the eggs had done in Tito's presence. Piero was quick in answering, but when he opened the door he accounted for his quickness in a manner that was not complimentary.

"Ah, Madonna Romola, is it you? I thought my eggs were come; I wanted them."

"I have brought you something better than hard eggs, Piero. Maso has got a little basket full of cakes and confetti for you," said Romola, smiling, as she put back her veil. She took the basket from Maso, and stepping into the house, said

"I know you like these things when you can have them without trouble. Confess you do."

"Yes, when they come to me as easily as the light does," said Piero, folding his arms and looking down at the sweetmeats as Romola uncovered them and glanced at him archly. "And they are come along with the light now," he added, lifting his eyes to her face and hair with a painter's admira. tion, as her hood, dragged by the weight of her veil, fell backward.

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"But I know what the sweatmeats are for," he went on; they are to stop my mouth while you scold me. Well, go on into the next room, and you will see I've done something to the picture since you saw it, though it's not finished yet. But I didn't promise, you know: I take care not to promise: 'Chi promette e non mantiene

L'anima sua non va mai bene.""

The door opening on the wild garden was closed now, and the painter was at work. Not at Romola's picture, however. That was standing on the floor, propped against the wall, and Piero stooped to lift it, that he might carry it into the proper light. But in lifting away this picture, he had disclosed another-the oil-sketch of Tito, to which he had made an important addition within the last few days. It was so much smaller than the other picture, that it stood far within it, and Piero, apt to forget where he had placed anything, was not aware of what he had revealed, as, peering at some detail in the painting which he held in his hands, he went to place it on an easel. But Romola exclaimed, flushing with astonish

ment

"That is Tito!"

Piero looked round, and gave a silent shrug. He was vexed at his own forgetfulness.

She was still looking at the sketch in astonishment; but

presently she turned towards the painter, and said with puzzled alarm

"What a strange picture! When did you paint it? What does it mean?

"A mere fancy of mine," said Piero, lifting off his skullcap, scratching his head, and making the usual grimace by which he avoided the betrayal of any feeling. "I wanted a handsome young face for it, and your husband's was just the thing."

He went forward, stooped down to the picture, and lifting it away with its back to Romola, pretended to be giving it a passing examination, before putting it aside as a thing not good enough to show.

But Romola, who had the fact of the armor in her mind, and was penetrated by this strange coincidence of things which associated Tito with the idea of fear, went to his elbow and said

"Don't put it away; let me look again. That man with the rope round his neck—I saw him-I saw you come to him in the Duomo. What was it that made you put him into a picture with Tito?"

Piero saw no better resource than to tell part of the truth. "It was a mere accident. The man was running awayrunning up the steps, and caught hold of your husband: I suppose he had stumbled. I happened to be there, and saw it, and I thought the savage-looking old fellow was a good subject. But it's worth nothing-it's only a freakish daub of mine." Piero ended contemptuously, moving the sketch away with an air of decision, and putting it on a high shelf. "Come and look at the Œdipus."

He had shown a little too much anxiety in putting the sketch out of her sight, and had produced the very impression he had sought to prevent-that there was really something unpleasant, something disadvantageous to Tito, in the circumstances out of which the picture arose. But this impression silenced her: her pride and delicacy shrank from questioning further, where questions might seem to imply that she could entertain even a slight suspicion against her husband. She merely said in as quiet a tone as she could

Do

"He was a strange piteous looking man, that prisoner. you know anything more of him?"

"No more I showed him the way to the hospital, that's all. See, now, the face of Edipus is pretty nearly finished; tell me what you think of it."