covo, and due reverence was done by Tito, but Romola saw nothing outward. If for the defeat of this treachery, in which she believed with all the force of long presentiment, it had been necessary at that moment for her to spring on her husband and hurl herself with him down a precipice, she felt as if she could have done it. Union with this man! At that moment the self-quelling discipline of two years seemed to be nullified: she felt nothing but that they were divided.
They were nearly in darkness again, and could only see each other's faces dimly.
"Tell me the truth, Tito—this time tell me the truth," said Romola, in a low quivering voice. "It will be safer for you."
"Why should I desire to tell you anything else, my angry saint?" said Tito, with a slight touch of contempt, which was the vent of his annoyance; "since the truth is precisely that over which you have most reason to rejoice—namely, that my knowing a plot of Spini's enables me to secure the Frate from falling a victim to it."
"What is the plot?"
"That I decline to tell," said Tito. "It is enough that the Frate's safety will be secured."
"It is a plot for drawing him outside the gates that Spini may murder him."
"There has been no intention of murder. It is simply a plot for compelling him to obey the Pope's
