need of soldiers to fight us. They send us an army of starving men."
"No, no! This man is one of the prisoners turned out of the Stinche. I know by the grey patch where the prison badge was."
"Keep quiet! Lend a hand! Don't you see the brethren are going to lift him on the bier?"
"It's likely he's alive enough if he could only look it. The soul may be inside him if it had only a drop of vernaccia to warm it."
"In truth, I think he is not dead," said one of the brethren, when they had lifted him on the bier. "He has perhaps only sunk down for want of food."
"Let me try to give him some wine," said Romola, coming forward. She loosened the small flask which she carried at her belt, and, leaning towards the prostrate body, with a deft hand she applied a small ivory implement between the teeth, and poured into the mouth a few drops of wine. The stimulus acted: the wine was evidently swallowed. She poured more, till the head was moved a little towards her, and the eyes of the old man opened full upon her with the vague look of returning consciousness.
Then for the first time a sense of complete recognition came over Romola. Those wild dark eyes opening in the sallow deep-lined face, with the white beard, which was now long again, were like an unmistakable signature to a remembered handwriting. The light of two summers had not made that image
