ile a world-wide revolution was concentrating its hurricane
forces around them; while the city of an Empire tottered already to its
tremendous fall; while Goisvintha plotted new revenge; while Ulpius
toiled for his revolution of bloodshed and ruin; while all these dark
materials of public misery and private strife seethed and strengthened
around them, they could as completely forget the stormy outward world,
in themselves; they could think as serenely of tranquil love; the kiss
could be given as passionately and returned as tenderly, as if the lot
of their existence had been cast in the pastoral days of the shepherd
poets, and the future of their duties and enjoyments was securely
awaiting them in a land of eternal peace!

CHAPTER 14.

THE FAMINE.

The end of November is approaching. Nearly a month has elapsed since
the occurrence of the events mentioned in the last chapter, yet still
the Gothic lines stretch round the city walls. Rome, that we left
haughty and luxurious even while ruin threatened her at her gates, has
now suffered a terrible and warning change. As we approach her again,
woe, horror, and desolation have already gone forth to shadow her lofty
palaces and to darken her brilliant streets.

Over Pomp that spurned it, over Pleasure that defied it, over Plenty
that scared it in its secret rounds, the spectre Hunger has now risen
triumphant at last. Day by day has the city's insufficient allowance
of food been more and more sparingly doled out; higher and higher has
risen the value of the coarsest and simplest provision; the hoarded
supplies that pity and charity have already bestowed to cheer the
sinking people have reached their utmost limits. For the rich, there
is still corn in the city--treasure of food to be bartered for treasure
of gold. For the poor, man's natural nourishment exists no more; the
season of famine's loathsome feasts, the first days of the sacrifice of
choice to necessity have darkly and irretrievably begun.

It is morning. A sad and noiseless throng is advancing over the cold
flagstones of the great square before the Basilica of St. John Lateran.
The members of the assembly speak in whispers. The weak are
tearful--the strong are gloomy--they all move with slow and languid
gait, and hold in their arms their dogs or other domestic animals. On
the outskirts of the crowd march the enfeebled guards of the city,
grasping in their rough hands rare favourite birds of gaudy plu