wife?" said Romola.

It would have been impossible for Baldassarre to recall any name at that
moment. The very force with which the image of Tito pressed upon him
seemed to expel any verbal sign. He made no answer, but looked at her
with strange fixedness.

She opened the door wide and showed the court covered with straw, on
which lay four or five sick people, while some little children crawled
or sat on it at their ease--tiny pale creatures, biting straws and
gurgling.

"If you will come in," said Romola, tremulously, "I will find you a
comfortable place, and bring you some more food."

"No, I will not come in," said Baldassarre. But he stood still,
arrested by the burden of impressions under which his mind was too
confused to choose a course.

"Can I do nothing for you?" said Romola. "Let me give you some money
that you may buy food. It will be more plentiful soon."

She had put her hand into her scarsella as she spoke, and held out her
palm with several _grossi_ in it. She purposely offered him more than
she would have given to any other man in the same circumstances. He
looked at the coins a little while, and then said--

"Yes, I will take them."

She poured the coins into his palm, and he grasped them tightly.

"Tell me," said Romola, almost beseechingly. "What shall you--"

But Baldassarre had turned away from her, and was walking again towards
the bridge. Passing from it, straight on up the Via del Fosso, he came
upon the shop of Niccolo Caparra, and turned towards it without a pause,
as if it had been the very object of his search. Niccolo was at that
moment in procession with the armourers of Florence, and there was only
one apprentice in the shop. But there were all sorts of weapons in
abundance hanging there, and Baldassarre's eyes discerned what he was
more hungry for than for bread. Niccolo himself would probably have
refused to sell anything that might serve as a weapon to this man with
signs of the prison on him; but the apprentice, less observant and
scrupulous, took three _grossi_ for a sharp hunting-knife without any
hesitation. It was a conveniently small weapon, which Baldassarre could
easily thrust within the breast of his tunic, and he walked on, feeling
stronger. That sharp edge might give deadliness to the thrust of an
aged arm: at least it was a companion, it was a power in league with
him, even if it failed. It would break against armour, but was the
armour sure to b