“It is true,” said Romola, with an air of abstraction. “I cannot believe that the Frate would approve denying the Appeal.”
“I heard it said by more than one person in the court of the Palazzo, before I came away, that it would be to the everlasting discredit of Fra Girolamo if he allowed a government which is almost entirely made up of his party, to deny the Appeal, without entering his protest, when he has been boasting in his books and sermons that it was he who got the law passed. But between ourselves, with all respect for your Frate’s ability, my Romola, he has got into the practice of preaching that form of human sacrifices called killing tyrants and wicked malcontents, which some of his followers are likely to think inconsistent with lenity in the present case.”
“I know, I know,” said Romola, with a look and tone of pain. “But he is driven into those excesses of speech. It used to be different. I will ask for an interview. I cannot rest without it. I trust in the greatness of his heart.”
She was not looking at Tito; her eyes were bent with a vague gaze towards the ground, and she had no distinct consciousness that the words she heard came from her husband.
“Better lose no time, then,” said Tito, with unmixed suavity, moving his cap round in his hands as if he were about to put it on and depart. “And now, Romola, you will perhaps be able to see, in spite of prejudice, that my wishes go with yours in this matter. You will not regard the misfortune of my safety as an offence.”
Something like an electric shock passed through Romola: it was the full consciousness of her husband’s presence returning to her. She looked at him without speaking.
“At least,” he added, in a slightly harder tone, “you will endeavour to base our intercourse on some other reasonings than that because an evil deed