nice. Marina had no peace in Venice.
She would never forget nor change. She had need of him--of her father's
love; and if he loved enough, _he would find a way_!

Chilled and heart-sick he turned, and with no torch and missing the
voice which had guided him through the long, dark passage, he groped his
way to his cabinet and sat down to confront a graver problem than any he
had ever conquered with Marina's aid. He _would_ find a way--but "it
must not be in Venice!" How could they leave Venice? Were they not
Venetians born, and was not Venice in trouble? To leave her now were to
deny her. _It could not be_!

He put the argument many times, feverishly at first, then more
calmly--coming always to the same conclusion, "it could not be." It was
a comfort to reach so sensible and positive a decision. To-morrow he
would go to his daughter, and meanwhile he must continue his work; he
needed to reassert his power, for he had been strangely shaken.

He drew the scattered papers together, but the lines, blurred and
confused, carried no meaning; the fragments of broken glass in the
little trays beside him were a dull, untranslucent gray, and written all
over papers and fragments, in vivid letters that burned into his brain,
were those other terrible words of Piero's which he had tried in vain to
forget--"Thy daughter is dying for this curse." _Marina--dying_!

How should Piero know more about Marina than her own father knew? Did he
profess to be a physician that one should credit his every word? What
did he mean by his impudent boast of "dying for her, if need should be!"
Had she not her husband and father to care for her? Her husband "who was
denying her the only thing that could give her life and peace," Piero
had said.--What was the matter with his insulting words, that he could
not forget them?--Had she not her father, who was going to her on the
morrow, when he had matured his plans, and would do whatever she
wished--"in Venice"? Her father "who loved her, as his own soul"--that
was what he had said to Piero, with the memory of all those dear years
when they had been all in all to each other, in this home.

Was it for hours or moments only that he sat in torture--enduring,
reasoning, placing love against pride, Marina against Venice, Venice
against a father's weakness, duty to the Republic before the need of
this only child who was "soul of his soul"?

The last of his race--inheriting the traditions and passionate
attach