“What plot?” said Romola, reddening, and trembling with alarmed surprise.
“You carry papers in your hand, I see,” said Fra Girolamo, pointing to the handbills. “One of them will, perhaps, tell you that the government has had new information.”
Romola hastily opened the handbill she had not yet read, and saw that the government had now positive evidence of a second plot, which was to have been carried out in this August time. To her mind it was like reading a confirmation that Tito had won his safety by foul means; his pretence of wishing that the Frate should exert himself on behalf of the condemned only helped the wretched conviction. She crushed up the paper in her hand, and, turning to Savonarola, she said, with new passion, “Father, what safety can there be for Florence when the worst man can always escape? And,” she went on, a sudden flash of remembrance coming from the thought about her husband, “have not you yourself encouraged this deception which corrupts the life of Florence, by wanting more favour to be shown to Lorenzo Tornabuoni, who has worn two faces, and flattered you with a show of affection, when my godfather has always been honest? Ask all Florence who of those five men has the truest heart, and there will not be many who will name any other name than Bernardo del Nero. You did interpose with Francesco Valori for the sake of one prisoner: you have not then been neutral; and you know that your word will be powerful.”
“I do not desire the death of Bernardo,” said Savonarola, colouring deeply. “It would be enough if he were sent out of the city.”
“Then why do you not speak to save an old man of seventy-five from dying a death of ignominy—to give him at least the fair chances of the