Suddenly she drew her arm away with a start, and a gaze of alarmed inquiry.
“What have you got under your tunic, Tito? Something as hard as iron.”
“It is iron—it is chain-armour,” he said at once. He was prepared for the surprise and the question, and he spoke quietly, as of something that he was not hurried to explain.
“There was some unexpected danger to-day, then?” said Romola, in a tone of conjecture. “You had it lent to you for the procession?”
“No; it is my own. I shall be obliged to wear it constantly, for some time.”
“What is it that threatens you, my Tito?” said Romola, looking terrified, and clinging to him again.
“Every one is threatened in these times, who is not a rabid enemy of the Medici. Don’t look distressed, my Romola—this armour will make me safe against covert attacks.”
Tito put his hand on her neck and smiled. This little dialogue about the armour had broken through the new crust, and made a channel for the sweet habit of kindness.
“But my godfather, then,” said Romola; “is not he, too, in danger? And he takes no precautions—ought he not? since he must surely be in more danger than you, who have so little influence compared with him.”
“It is just because I am less important that I am in more danger,” said Tito, readily. “I am suspected constantly of being an envoy. And men like Messer Bernardo are protected by their position and their extensive family connections, which spread among all parties, while I am a Greek that nobody would avenge.”