ds, Romola shrank
and drew herself up into her usual self-sustained attitude. Tito went
on. "If by `that old man' you mean the mad Jacopo di Nola who attempted
my life and made a strange accusation against me, of which I told you
nothing because it would have alarmed you to no purpose, he, poor
wretch, has died in prison. I saw his name in the list of dead."

"I know nothing about his accusation," said Romola. "But I know he is
the man whom I saw with the rope round his neck in the Duomo--the man
whose portrait Piero di Cosimo painted, grasping your arm as he saw him
grasp it the day the French entered, the day you first wore the armour."

"And where is he now, pray?" said Tito, still pale, but governing
himself.

"He was lying lifeless in the street from starvation," said Romola. "I
revived him with bread and wine. I brought him to our door, but he
refused to come in. Then I gave him some money, and he went away
without telling me anything. But he had found out that I was your wife.
Who is he?"

"A man, half mad, half imbecile, who was once my father's servant in
Greece, and who has a rancorous hatred towards me because I got him
dismissed for theft. Now you have the whole mystery, and the further
satisfaction of knowing that I am again in danger of assassination. The
fact of my wearing the armour, about which you seem to have thought so
much, must have led you to infer that I was in danger from this man.
Was that the reason you chose to cultivate his acquaintance and invite
him into the house?"

Romola was mute. To speak was only like rushing with bare breast
against a shield.

Tito moved from his leaning posture, slowly took off his cap and mantle,
and pushed back his hair. He was collecting himself for some final
words. And Romola stood upright looking at him as she might have looked
at some on-coming deadly force, to be met only by silent endurance.

"We need not refer to these matters again, Romola," he said, precisely
in the same tone as that in which he had spoken at first. "It is enough
if you will remember that the next time your generous ardour leads you
to interfere in political affairs, you are likely, not to save any one
from danger, but to be raising scaffolds and setting houses on fire.
You are not yet a sufficiently ardent Piagnone to believe that Messer
Bernardo del Nero is the prince of darkness, and Messer Francesco Valori
the archangel Michael. I think I need demand no promise