“You must not think despairingly of the consequences,” said Tito, in a tone of soothing encouragement, at which Romola stood wondering, until he added, “The accused have too many family ties with all parties not to escape; and Messer Bernardo del Nero has other things in his favour besides his age.”
Romola started, and gave a cry as if she had been suddenly stricken by a sharp weapon.
“What! you did not know it?” said Tito, putting his hand under her arm that he might lead her to a seat; but she seemed to be unaware of his touch.
“Tell me,” she said, hastily—“tell me what it is.”
“A man, whose name you may forget—Lamberto dell’ Antella—who was banished, has been seized within the territory: a letter has been found on him of very dangerous import to the chief Mediceans, and the scoundrel, who was once a favourite hound of Piero de’ Medici, is ready now to swear what anyone pleases against him or his friends. Some have made their escape, but five are now in prison.”
“My godfather?” said Romola, scarcely above a whisper, as Tito made a slight pause.
“Yes: I grieve to say it. But along with him there are three, at least, whose names have a commanding interest even among the popular party—Niccolò Ridolfi, Lorenzo Tornabuoni, and Giannozzo Pucci.”
The tide of Romola’s feelings had been violently turned into a new channel. In the tumult of that moment there could be no check to the words which came as the impulsive utterance of her long-accumulating horror. When Tito had named the men of whom she felt certain he was the confederate, she said, with a recoiling gesture and low-toned bitterness—