see," said Fra Girolamo, pointing to
the handbills. "One of them will, perhaps, tell you that the government
has had new information."

Romola hastily opened the handbill she had not yet read, and saw that
the government had now positive evidence of a second plot, which was to
have been carried out in this August time. To her mind it was like
reading a confirmation that Tito had won his safety by foul means; his
pretence of wishing that the Frate should exert himself on behalf of the
condemned only helped the wretched conviction. She crushed up the paper
in her hand, and, turning to Savonarola, she said, with new passion,
"Father, what safety can there be for Florence when the worst man can
always escape? And," she went on, a sudden flash of remembrance coming
from the thought about her husband, "have not you yourself encouraged
this deception which corrupts the life of Florence, by wanting more
favour to be shown to Lorenzo Tornabuoni, who has worn two faces, and
flattered you with a show of affection, when my godfather has always
been honest? Ask all Florence who of those five men has the truest
heart, and there will not be many who will name any other name than
Bernardo del Nero. You did interpose with Francesco Valori for the sake
of one prisoner: you have _not_ then been neutral; and you know that
your word will be powerful."

"I do not desire the death of Bernardo," said Savonarola, colouring
deeply. "It would be enough if he were sent out of the city."

"Then why do you not speak to save an old man of seventy-five from dying
a death of ignominy--to give him at least the fair chances of the law?"
burst out Romola, the impetuosity of her nature so roused that she
forgot everything but her indignation. "It is not that you feel bound
to be neutral; else why did you speak for Lorenzo Tornabuoni? You spoke
for him because he is more friendly to San Marco; my godfather feigns no
friendship. It is not, then, as a Medicean that my godfather is to die;
it is as a man you have no love for!"

When Romola paused, with cheeks glowing, and with quivering lips, there
was dead silence. As she saw Fra Girolamo standing motionless before
her, she seemed to herself to be hearing her own words over again; words
that in this echo of consciousness were in strange, painful dissonance
with the memories that made part of his presence to her. The moments of
silence were expanded by gathering compunction and self-doubt. She