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 oncoming 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 anyone 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 from you?”