The vision pursued her night and day. The River of the Wrath of God,
leaping up to meet those frowning skies of His most just anger, and
Venice--superb, disdainful--overwhelmed between; the cloud of
innumerable souls, tortured and writhing, fleeing from before the face
of the Holy One, no more than a mere film of whirling atoms,
falling--falling into an abyss of horrors--the dim, doomed shapes
wearing faces that had smiled into hers--With an inarticulate moan she
hid her face on her husband's shoulder.
"Marco," she whispered with an effort, for her strength was spent, "not
though it were a vision, revealed by the Madonna San Donato, thou
wouldest take me to Rome? Not though I could make thee comprehend what
it means for me--and thee?"
She waited breathlessly for his answer, with pulses that seemed to pause
for the momentous decision, not daring to look at him lest she should
falter and retract; for never again would she ask this question, which,
even now, she had put in the form of an assertion.
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