He rode between his people
oppressed by a sense of estrangement such as he had never known. He felt
himself shut off from them by an impassable barrier of superstition and
ignorance; and every effort to reach them was like the wrong turn in a
labyrinth, drawing him farther away from the issue to which it seemed to
lead.
As he advanced under this indifferent or hostile scrutiny, he thought
how much easier it would be to face a rain of bullets than this
withering glare of criticism. A sudden longing to escape, to be done
with it all, came over him with sickening force. His nerves ached with
the physical strain of holding himself upright on his horse, of
preserving the statuesque erectness proper to the occasion. He felt like
one of his own ancestral effigies, of which the wooden framework had
rotted under the splendid robes. A congestion at the head of a narrow
street had checked the procession, and he was obliged to rein in his
horse. He looked about and found himself in the centre of the square
near the Baptistery. A few feet off, directly in a line with him, was
the weather-worn front of the Royal Printing-Press. He raised his head
and saw a group of people on the balcony. Though they were close at
hand, he saw them in a blur, against which Fulvia's figure suddenly
detached itself. She had told him that she was to view the procession
with the Andreonis; but through the mental haze which enveloped him her
apparition struck a vague surprise. He looked at her intently, and their
eyes met.
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