* *

"Nay," Girolamo had answered to every argument. "It is for thee to
remain in Venice with her child, that the Signoria be not wroth with the
Ca' Giustiniani, and for me to seek and care for her--mayhap, if heaven
be merciful, to bring her to thee again! She cannot be far to seek."

"In Padua!" cried Marcantonio, with sudden conviction. "They will sleep
in Padua to-night. It _was_ the voice of the Lady Beata!"

XXX

"Art thou sure, Marina?"

"Ay, Piero, though it were death to me; and death were sweeter----"

Her hair lay like a wreath of snow across her forehead, from stress of
the night's vigil, her lip trembled like a grieved child's, but in her
exquisite face there was the grace of a spirit strong and tender.

He helped her silently into the gondola and steered it carefully between
the pali which rose like a scattered sheaf, glowing with the colors of
the Giustiniani, in the water before her palace. And thus, in the early
dawn--unattended, with the sadness of death in her pallid face--the lady
of the Giustiniani floated away from her beautiful home--away from
happiness and love--into a future cheerless and dim as the dawn lights
that were faintly tinging the sea. For the day was breaking, full of
gloom, under a sky of clouds, and the wind blew chill from across the
Lido.

She sat with her gray mantle shrouding her face, and neither of them
spoke, while the gondola, under Piero's deft guidance, quickly gained
the steps of the Piazzetta and passed on to San Giorgio. Then she
touched his arm entreatingly.

"Oh, let us wait one moment before we lose sight of the palazzo! Madre
Beatissima, have them in thy keeping!"

She stretched out her hands unconsciously, with a gesture of petition,
and her mantle slipped back, exposing her pallid, pain-stricken face and
her whitened tresses.

Piero was startled at the havoc the night had made, for he had seen her
only the day before, in answer to her summons, when she had been far
more like herself.

"Santa Maria!" he exclaimed, crossing himself, and awkward under the
unaccustomed sense of an overwhelming compassion. "The Holy Mother must
shrive me for breaking my vow, for if San Marco and San Teodoro would
give me a place between them before the matins ring again--mistaking me
for a traitor--I cannot take thee from Venice. We will return," and
already the gondola was yielding to his stroke. "Let Marcantonio bring
thee himself to Rome."

"Piero, thou