“When did this happen?” he asked.

She shook her head despairingly.

“Fulvia,” he said, “if you will not speak I will speak for you.  I can guess what arguments were used—­what threats, even.  Were there threats?” burst from him in a fresh leap of anger.

She raised her head slowly.  “Threats would not have mattered,” she said.

“But your fears were played on—­your fears for my safety?—­Fulvia, answer me!” he insisted.

She rose suddenly and laid her arms about his shoulders, with a gesture half-tender, half-maternal.

“Oh,” she said, “why will you torture me?  I have borne much for our love’s sake, and would have borne this too—­in silence, like the rest—­but to speak of it is to relieve it; and my strength fails me!”

He held her hands fast, keeping his eyes on hers.  “No,” he said, “for your strength never failed you when there was any call on it; and our whole past calls on it now.  Rouse yourself, Fulvia:  look life in the face!  You were told there might be troubles tomorrow—­that I was in danger, perhaps?”

“There was worse—­there was worse,” she shuddered.

“Worse?”

“The blame was laid on me—­the responsibility.  Your love for me, my power over you, were accused.  The people hate me—­they hate you for loving me!  Oh, I have destroyed you!” she cried.

Odo felt a slow cold strength pouring into all his veins.  It was as though his enemies, in thinking to mix a mortal poison, had rendered him invulnerable.  He bent over her with great gentleness.

“Fulvia, this is madness,” he said.  “A moment’s thought must show you what passions are here at work.  Can you not rise above such fears?  No one can judge between us but ourselves.”

“Ah, but you do not know—­you will not understand.  Your life may be in danger!” she cried.

“I have been told that before,” he said contemptuously.  “It is a common trick of the political game.”

“This is no trick,” she exclaimed.  “I was made to see—­to understand—­and I swear to you that the danger is real.”

“And what if it were?  Is the Church to have all the martyrs?” said he gaily.  “Come, Fulvia, shake off such fancies.  My life is as safe as yours.  At worst there may be a little hissing to be faced.  That is easy enough compared to facing one’s own doubts.  And I have no doubts now—­that is all past, thank heaven!  I see the road straight before me—­as straight as when you showed it to me once before, years ago, in the inn-parlour at Peschiera.  You pointed the way to it then; surely you would not hold me back from it now?”

He took her in his arms and kissed her lips to silence.

“When we meet tomorrow,” he said, releasing her, “It will be as teacher and pupil, you in your doctor’s gown and I a learner at your feet.  Put your old faith in me into your argument, and we shall have all Pianura converted.”