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CHAPTER VII.
THE YOUNG WIFE.
While Tito was hastening across the bridge with the new-bought armour under his mantle, Romola was pacing up and down the old library, thinking of him and longing for his return.
It was but a few fair faces that had not looked forth from windows that day to see the entrance of the French king and his nobles. One of the few was Romola's. She had been present at no festivities since her father had died—died quite suddenly in his chair, three months before.
"Is not Tito coming to write?" he had said, when the bell had long ago sounded the usual hour in the evening. He had not asked before, from dread of a negative; but Romola had seen by his listening face and restless movements that nothing else was in his mind.
"No, father, he had to go to a supper at the cardinal's; you know he is wanted so much by every one," she answered, in a tone of gentle excuse.
"Ah! then perhaps he will bring some positive
