Romola had a purpose in her mind as she was hastening away; a purpose which had been growing through the afternoon hours like a side-stream, rising higher and higher along with the main current. It was less a resolve than a necessity of her feeling. Heedless of the darkening streets, and not caring to call for Maso’s slow escort, she hurried across the bridge where the river showed itself black before the distant dying red, and took the most direct way to the Old Palace. She might encounter her husband there. No matter. She could not weigh probabilities; she must discharge her heart. She did not know what she passed in the pillared court or up the wide stairs; she only knew that she asked an usher for the Gonfaloniere, giving her name, and begging to be shown into a private room.

She was not left long alone with the frescoed figures and the newly-lit tapers. Soon the door opened, and Bernardo del Nero entered, still carrying his white head erect above his silk lucco.

‘Romola, my child, what is this?’ he said, in a tone of anxious surprise as he closed the door.

She had uncovered her head and went rowards him without speaking. He laid his hand on her shoulder, and held her a little way from him that he might see her better. Her face was haggard from fatigue and long agitation, her hair had rolled down in disorder; but there was an excitement in her eyes that seemed to have triumphed over the bodily consciousness.

‘What has he done?’ said Bernardo, abruptly. ‘Tell me everything, child; throw away pride. I am your father,’

‘It is not about myself — nothing about myself,’ said Romola, hastily. ‘Dearest godfather, it is about you. I have heard things — some I cannot tell you. But you are in danger in the palace; you are in danger everywhere. There are fanatical men who would harm you, and — and there are traitors. Trust nobody. If you trust, you will be betrayed.’ Bernardo smiled.

‘Have you worked yourself up into this agitation, my poor child,’ he said, raising his hand to her head and patting it gently, ‘to tell such old truth as that to an old man like me?’

‘Oh no, no! they are not old truths that I mean,’ said Romola, pressing her clasped hands painfully together, as if that action would help her to suppress what must not be told. ‘They are fresh things that I know, but cannot tell. Dearest godfather, you know I am not foolish. I would not come to you without reason. Is it too late to warn you against any one, every one who seems to be working on your side? Is it too late to say, “Go to your villa and keep away in the country when these three more days of office are over?” Oh God! perhaps it is too late! and if any harm comes to you, it will be as if I had done it!’

The last words had burst from Romola involuntarily: a long-stifled feeling had found spasmodic utterance. But she herself was startled and arrested.

‘I mean,’ she added, hesitantly, ‘I know nothing positive. I only know what fills me with fears.’

‘Poor child!’ said Bernardo, looking at her with quiet penetration for a moment or two. Then he said: ‘Go, Romola — go home and rest. These fears may be only big ugly shadows of something very little and harmless. Even traitors must see their interest in betraying; the rats will run where they smell the cheese, and there is no knowing yet which way the scent will come.’

He paused, and turned away his eyes from her with an air of abstraction, till, with a slow shrug, he added —

‘As for warnings, they are of no use to me, child. I enter into no plots, but I never forsake my colours. If I march abreast with obstinate men, who will rush on guns and pikes, I must share the consequences. Le............