“Do not be alarmed by anything that bestia has said, my Romola. We will go on now: I think the rain has not increased.”
She was quivering with indignant resolution; it was of no use for Tito to speak in that unconcerned way. She distrusted every word he could utter.
“I will not go on,” she said. “I will not move nearer home until I have some security against this treachery being perpetrated.”
“Wait, at least, until these torches have passed,” said Tito, with perfect self-command, but with a new rising of dislike to a wife who this time, he foresaw, might have the power of thwarting him in spite of the husband’s predominance.
The torches passed, with the Vicario dell’ Arcivescovo, 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?”