width of the green grasslands, of the heath-grown moors, was around her; as long as she possessed the lovely light of the unobscured skies, the wholesome wine of the strong wind, the fresh fragrance of the dewy soil.
But as she drew nigh this wilderness of stone, of brick, of marble, of iron, she saw no more the purple flower of the great dome: she only saw a labyrinth of men's making in which she would wander miserably; finding not her lover, and losing her hold upon his assassin.
A greater terror than that which she had felt in the prisons and judgment-chamber of Orbetello fell upon her. If she could not find Este, if she lost sight of this man bent on his destruction, what could she do? How could she warn him whom she would have given every drop of her life-blood to save?
The autumn day was drawing to a close; the splendour of sunset in November was beginning to lend its deeper gold, its darker blue, to the western heavens; the bells of Rome were rocking and beating on the air.
With that frost of fear on her heart, she followed Saturnino as he passed through
