6o BROWN : 



let the firm, strong roots tangle and grow, then phicked them, careless 

 that they hnrt the plant. I loved Antonio, and he loved me. 



Ivife was all shadow, but it was not sin. I loved Antonio, hut I kept 

 me pure. Not for my husband's sake, but for his sake, my cliild, mj' 

 little child, mine for a few short weeks, whose look, whose tone, thrilled 

 all my soul, and thrills it to this hour. I loved, but hear me swear, I 

 kept me pure. Remember that, Madonna, when I come before th}- 

 throne to-morrow. Be not stern, nor gaze upon me with reproachful 

 look, making my little angel hide his face weeping while the others 

 turn glad eyes, rejoicing, on their mothers. 



It was hard to sit in darkness while the rest had light, to move to 

 discord while the rest had song, to be so young and never to have lived. 

 I bore as women bear until one day soul said to flesh, "This I endure no 

 more," uprose, tore clay apart. And what was blank liefnre grew 

 blanker still. 



It was a fever — so the leeches said. I had been dead so long I did 

 not know the difference, or heed. Oil on my breast, the garments of the 

 grave about me wrapped, they bore me forth and laid me in the tomb, 

 the rich, the beautiful, the dreadful tomb, where all the buried Amieri 

 lie, beneath the Duomo's black and gloomy shade. 



Open the curtain, child. Ves ; it is night. It was night then when 

 I awoke to feel that deadl}- chill and see, by fitful, ghastly gleams of 

 moonlight through the grated door the cofiins of my kinsmen round 

 about. Strange, hollow echoes rang and echoed back, as struggling out 

 of mine I dropped and fell. With frantic strength I beat upon the door. 

 It yielded to my touch ; some careless hand had left the latch half 

 slipped. My father swore afterwards, with a curse, he would make sure 

 next time. Next time ! That hurts me even now. 



Living or deail I issued, scarce sure which. High overhead Giotto's 

 Tower soared. Behind, the Duomo rose, all white and black. Then 

 pealed a sudden jargoning of bells and darkling down the street I wildly 

 rushed, led by a little, cold and wandering moon that seemed as lonely 

 and as lost as I. I had no aim save to reach warmth and light and 

 human touch, yet still my witless step led to my husband's door — there 

 slopped by instinct ;uul I knocked and called. A window opened and a 

 voice ('twas his) demanded, "Who is there?" " ' Tis I, Ginevra." 

 Then I heard the tone change into horror as he prayed aloud. The while 

 I pled, "Oh, let me in, Francesco, let me in ! I am so cold, so fright- 

 ened; let me in." Then with a crash the window was made fast, and 

 though I cried and beat ujion the door and wailed aloud, no other 

 answer came. 



Weeping, I turned away and feebly strove down the hard distance to 

 my parents' house. "They will have pity and will let me in," I 



