“Tessa,” he said, sitting down and taking her head between his hands; “leave off crying, little goose, and listen to me.”
He lifted her chin upward, that she might look at him, while he spoke very distinctly and emphatically.
“You must never speak to that old man again. He is a mad old man, and he wants to kill me. Never speak to him or listen to him again.”
Tessa’s tears had ceased, and her lips were pale with fright.
“Is he gone away?” she whispered.
“He will go away. Remember what I have said to you.”
“Yes; I will never speak to a stranger any more,” said Tessa, with a sense of guilt.
He told her, to comfort her, that he would come again to-morrow; and then went down to Monna Lisa to rebuke her severely for letting a dangerous man come about the house.
Tito felt that these were odious tasks; they were very evil-tasted morsels, but they were forced upon him. He heard Monna Lisa fasten the door behind him, and turned away, without looking towards the open door of the hovel. He felt secure that Baldassarre would go, and he could not wait to see him go. Even his young frame and elastic spirit were shattered by the agitations that had been crowded into this single evening.
Baldassarre was still sitting on the straw when the shadow of Tito passed by. Before him lay the fragments of the broken dagger; beside him lay the open book, over which he had pored in vain. They looked like mocking symbols of his utter helplessness; and his body was still too trembling for him to rise and walk away.