ore 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 towards 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