Walking dreamily, almost unseeingly through the streets, he
thought again and yet again of the sweet face, the rippling hair,
the laughing yet tender eyes, the sunny smile. Behind that beautiful
picture or earth-phantom of womanhood, is there that sword of flame,
the soul?--the soul that will sweep through shams, and come out as
bright and glittering at the end of the fight as at the beginning?--
he mused;--or is it not almost too much to expect of a mere woman
that she can contend against the anger of a Church?
He was still thinking on this subject, when someone walking quickly
came face to face with him, and said--
"Aubrey!" He started and stared,--then uttered a cry of pleasure.
"Gys Grandit!"
The two men clasped each other's hands in a warm, strong grasp--and
for a moment neither could speak.
"My dear fellow!" said Aubrey at last--"This is indeed an unexpected
meeting! How glad I am to see you! When did you arrive in Rome?"
"This morning only," said Cyrillon, recovering his speech and his
equanimity together--"And as soon as I arrived, I found that my
hopes had not betrayed me--she is not dead!"
"She?" Aubrey started--"My dear Grandit! Or rather I must call you
Vergniaud now--who is the triumphant 'she' that has brought you thus
post haste to Rome?"
Cyrillon flushed--then grew pale.
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