flee."

Romola's anger at the intrusion mounted higher at these imperative
words. She would not turn round to look at the speaker, whose examining
gaze she resented. Sitting quite motionless, she said--

"What right have you to speak to me, or to hinder me?"

"The right of a messenger. You have put on a religious garb, and you
have no religious purpose. You have sought the garb as a disguise. But
you were not suffered to pass me without being discerned. It was
declared to me who you were: it is declared to me that you are seeking
to escape from the lot God has laid upon you. You wish your true name
and your true place in life to be hidden, that you may choose for
yourself a new name and a new place, and have no rule but your own will.
And I have a command to call you back. My daughter, you must return to
your place."

Romola's mind rose in stronger rebellion with every sentence. She was
the more determined not to show any sign of submission, because the
consciousness of being inwardly shaken made her dread lest she should
fall into irresolution. She spoke with more irritation than before.

"I will not return. I acknowledge no right of priests and monks to
interfere with my actions. You have no power over me."

"I know--I know you have been brought up in scorn of obedience. But it
is not the poor monk who claims to interfere with you: it is the truth
that commands you. And you cannot escape it. Either you must obey it,
and it will lead you; or you must disobey it, and it will hang on you
with the weight of a chain which you will drag for ever. But you will
obey it, my daughter. Your old servant will return to you with the
mules; my companion is gone to fetch him; and you will go back to
Florence."

She started up with anger in her eyes, and faced the speaker. It was
Fra Girolamo: she knew that well enough before. She was nearly as tall
as he was, and their faces were almost on a level. She had started up
with defiant words ready to burst from her lips, but they fell back
again without utterance. She had met Fra Girolamo's calm glance, and
the impression from it was so new to her, that her anger sank ashamed as
something irrelevant.

There was nothing transcendent in Savonarola's face. It was not
beautiful. It was strong-featured, and owed all its refinement to
habits of mind and rigid discipline of the body. The source of the
impression his glance produced on Romola was the sense it conve