away Baldassarre's claim, Tito's thought
showed itself as active as a virulent acid, eating its rapid way through
all the tissues of sentiment. His mind was destitute of that dread
which has been erroneously decried as if it were nothing higher than a
man's animal care for his own skin: that awe of the Divine Nemesis which
was felt by religious pagans, and, though it took a more positive form
under Christianity, is still felt by the mass of mankind simply as a
vague fear at anything which is called wrong-doing. Such terror of the
unseen is so far above mere sensual cowardice that it will annihilate
that cowardice: it is the initial recognition of a moral law restraining
desire, and checks the hard bold scrutiny of imperfect thought into
obligations which can never be proved to have any sanctity in the
absence of feeling. "It is good," sing the old Eumenides, in Aeschylus,
"that fear should sit as the guardian of the soul, forcing it into
wisdom--good that men should carry a threatening shadow in their hearts
under the full sunshine; else, how should they learn to revere the
right?" That guardianship may become needless; but only when all
outward law has become needless--only when duty and love have united in
one stream and made a common force.

As Tito entered the outer cloister of San Marco, and inquired for Fra
Luca, there was no shadowy presentiment in his mind: he felt himself too
cultured and sceptical for that: he had been nurtured in contempt for
the tales of priests whose impudent lives were a proverb, and in erudite
familiarity with disputes concerning the Chief Good, which had after
all, he considered, left it a matter of taste. Yet fear was a strong
element in Tito's nature--the fear of what he believed or saw was likely
to rob him of pleasure: and he had a definite fear that Fra Luca might
be the means of driving him from Florence.

"Fra Luca? ah, he is gone to Fiesole--to the Dominican monastery there.
He was taken on a litter in the cool of the morning. The poor Brother
is very ill. Could you leave a message for him?"

This answer was given by a _fra converso_, or lay brother, whose accent
told plainly that he was a raw contadino, and whose dull glance implied
no curiosity.

"Thanks; my business can wait."

Tito turned away with a sense of relief. "This friar is not likely to
live," he said to himself. "I saw he was worn to a shadow. And at
Fiesole there will be nothing to recall me to his m