fearfully marked out, she thought Godolphin vanished, and all was suddenly
and utter night--night, but not stillness--for there was a roar as of many
winds, and a dashing of angry waters, that seemed close beneath; and she
heard the trees groan and bend, and felt the icy and rushing air: the
tempests were abroad. But amidst the mingling of the mighty sounds, she
heard distinctly the ringing of a horse's hoofs; and presently a wild cry,
in which she recognised the voice of Godolphin, rang forth, adding to the
wrath of nature the yet more appalling witness of a human despair. The
cry was followed by the louder dashing of the waves, and the fiercer
turmoil of the winds; and then her anguish and horror freeing her from the
Prison of Sleep, she woke.

It was nearly day, but the serenity of the late night had gone; the rain
fell in torrents, and the house shook beneath the fury of a violent storm.
This change in the mood of nature had probably influenced the latter part
of her dream. But Lucilla thought of no natural solution to the dreadful
vision she had undergone. Her superstition was confirmed and ratified by
the intense impression wrought upon her mind by the dream. A thousand
unutterable fears, fears for Godolphin, rather than herself--or if for
herself, only in connection with him--bore irresistible despotism over her
thoughts. She could not endure to wait, to linger any longer in the dark
and agitated suspense she herself had created; the idea she before had
nursed now became resolve, she determined forthwith to set out for
Rome--to see Godolphin. She rose, woke her attendant, and that very day
she put her resolution into effect.