he
repeated soothingly; yet, as she grew calmer, brought despair again.

"Nay, Marina, no loyal senator may question the decision of his
government; thou presumest too far; but thine illness and thy suffering
have made thee irresponsible."

Then, grieving so to cross her in her weakness and pain, with all his
tenderness in his voice, he hastened to atone for the firmness of the
declaration which had sufficiently proved his staunchness.

"Marina, thou and I--were we not Giustiniani--more than all other
Venetians owe our loyalty in time of stress; and for love of thee,
beloved, shall Venice find me faithful in her need--I and all my
household true, and all my fortune hers in service, if need should
be--as thus I vowed, before them all, on that day when the Senate gave
thee to me and made thee the sweetest patrician lady in all the land. We
will not fail them, beloved!"

He clasped her close, holding her firmly, as if to infuse her with his
faith. "All blessings are for those who do the right, Marina; we need
not fear."

Never had she seen his face so inspired, so masterful, so tender; it was
a revelation. The whole of their beautiful love story was written on it,
mastering all the traditions of Venice, yet binding him more closely to
the service of his country.

For a moment she looked at him awestruck, longing to give the submission
which would bring her rest; it was not strange that she loved him so;
oh, if she might but acquiesce in his view of right! Madre Beatissima,
life was hard, and the way of right was the way of the cross--how many
holy women had found it so! One hand stole to the little crucifix
beneath her robe and pressed its roughened surfaces into her breast, for
she must not place the sweetness of this earthly love before the duty of
the heavenly one. "Santa Maria, save me!" she prayed, while, only for
one moment, she drooped her head to his shoulder and nestled close, that
he should know her heart was his, whatever came--_whatever came_.

Was it strange that her agony threatened her reason? In that one little
moment of comfort, which she yearned to hold free from suffering that
its remembrance might uphold her, the powerful vision of the
Tintoretto's awful _Judgment_ rose beckoningly before her. It was the
doom of Venice, and she alone--so impotent--recognized the danger.

The vision pursued her night and day. The River of the Wrath of God,
leaping up to meet those frowning skies of His most jus