“Ah, then, they are fine intagli!” said Bardo.  “Five hundred ducats!  Ah, more than a man’s ransom!”

Tito gave a slight, almost imperceptible start, and opened his long, dark eyes with questioning surprise at Bardo’s blind face, as if his words—­a mere phrase of common parlance at a time when men were often being ransomed from slavery or imprisonment—­had some special meaning for him.

But Bardo had used the words in all innocence, and went on to talk of superstitions that attached to certain gems, and to undertake that he would use his influence with the Secretary of the Republic in Tito’s behalf.  Both Romola and her father were attracted by the charm and freshness and apparent simplicity of the young man; but just as he was making ready to depart they were interrupted by the entrance of Bernardo del Nero, one of the chief citizens of Florence, Bardo’s oldest friend, and Romola’s godfather; and Bernardo felt an instant, instinctive distrust of the handsome, ingratiating stranger, and did not hesitate to say so after Tito had left them.

“Remember, Bardo,” he said at length, “thou hast a rare gem of thy own; take care no one gets it who is not like to pay a worthy price.  That pretty Greek has a sleekness about him that seems marvelously fitted for slipping into any nest he fixes his mind on.”

III.—­The Man who was Wronged

It was undeniable that Tito’s coming had been the dawn of a new life for both father and daughter, and he grew to care for Romola supremely—­to wish to have her for his beautiful and loving wife.

He took her place as Bardo’s assistant, and served him with an easy efficiency that had been beyond her; and she, happier in her father’s happiness, had given her love to Tito even before he ventured to offer her his own.  He was thus sailing under the fairest breeze, and besides convincing fair judges that his talents squared with his good fortune, he wore that fortune so unpretentiously that no one seemed to be offended by it.

And that was not the whole of Tito’s good fortune, for he had sold his jewels, and was master of full five hundred gold florins.  Yet the moment when he first had this sum in his possession was the crisis of the first serious struggle his facile, good-humoured nature had known.

“A man’s ransom!” Who was it that had said five hundred florins was more than a man’s ransom?  If, now, under this mid-day sun, on some hot coast far away, a man somewhat stricken in years—­a man not without high thoughts, and with the most passionate heart—­a man who long years ago had rescued a little boy from a life of beggary, filth, and cruel wrong, and had reared him tenderly, if that man were now, under this summer sun, toiling as a slave, hewing wood and drawing water?  If he were saying to himself, “Tito will find me.  He had but to carry our gems to Venice; he will have raised money, and will never rest till he finds me out?” If