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 hast sworn to me! Thou shalt abide by thy promise!" she

cried, seizing the oar in her trembling hand.

"Ay, Marina, I have sworn to thee," he answered, with slow pauses, "and

by our Holy Mother of San Giorgio, I will serve thee like a saint in

heaven. Yet I would thou wert in thy home again--already thou hast

broken thy heart for love of it."

The gondolas of the people were gathering about the steps of the

palaces, bringing their burdens for the day's ongoings in those

luxurious homes; the bells were calling to early Mass; the stir of life

was beginning in the city; soon, in her own palace, her little one would

wake, and Marco--She stood with straining eyes, yearning for the chance

of a face in her palace window--the bare last chance of another sight of

his dear face. She did not know that Piero was watching

her--compassionate and comprehending--while she was struggling to

outlive the agony for the very love's sake which made it so keen.

It was the only sweetness left in life for her, that this cruel parting

was yet for Marco's sake; that she might still plead with the Holy

Father for this desperate need of which Marco seemed unconscious--since,

in a vision never to be forgotten, the blessed Madre of San Donato had

confided this mission to her. She could bear everything to win such a

blessing for her beloved ones, only she must reach Rome--surely the

Madre Beatissima would let her live to reach the Holy City!

The tide was brimming the canals, rising over the water steps; the

growing light gleamed coldly on the polished marbles of her palace,

burnishing the rich gold fretwork of frieze and tracery--but not any

face of any dear one responded to her hungry longing, watching for her

in the deep spaces of the windows, in token of the love from which she

was fleeing.

This also--this last longing--she must surrender!

Her white face grew brave again; she sat down and drew her veil--the

ample _fazzuolo_ of the Muranese--more closely about her. "I am ready,"

she said, and turned her face resolutely forward.

As they rounded San Giorgio, turning into the broad Giudecca, a shoal of

little boats came over the water from Murano.

"They are the nuns of San Donato!" she said in amazement, and drawing

her veil closer. "Piero, canst thou not ask their whither?"

It was so strange, on this morning of all others, to see them turn in

the direction of Ca' Giustiniani; there came a vision of her chapel,

which her maidens were decking--of the dear altar, at which she should

kneel no more--and she held her breath to hear the answer.

"Will the most Reverend Mother bless the boat of a gondolier of the

people; and his sister, who hath been ill and craveth the morning air?"

Piero, who had discarded every emblem of his office, and wore only the

simple dress of the Nicolotti, put the question easily, without fear of

recognition. "And there is no great trouble in the city which calleth

these illustrious ladies so early from Murano?"

"Nay; but the Senator Giustiniani hath prayed us for a grace to his

sweet lady, for the chapel hath been closed while she hath been too ill

for service; and to-day it will be opened, dressed with flowers, and

we--because she loveth greatly our Madonna of San Donato and hath shown

bounty, with munificent gifts, to all the parish--will chant the matins

in her oratory."

They gave the benediction and passed.

While Marcantonio, with his tender thought for Marina fresh in his

heart, was waking to find only her note of farewell.

"Only because I love thee, Marco mio, I have the strength to leave thee.

And it is the Madonna who hath called me. Forgive, and forget not thy

sad Marina."

"Marina--" Piero began awkwardly, for argument was not his forte, and

Marina had always conquered him. "'Chi troppo abbraccia nulla stringe,'

one gains nothing who grasps too much. Thou wast ever one for duty, and

if the Senator Marcantonio will not take thee to Rome----"

"No, Piero, he cannot; he is one of the rulers of Venice."

"Thou, then--his wife----"

How could he venture to counsel her, of whose will and wisdom he had

always stood in awe? It seemed to Piero that he had already delivered an

oration; yet he felt that there was more to say, but his thoughts grew

confused in seeking for expression, and it was a relief to him to

communicate his uncertainty to the motion of his gondola.

The unsteady movement said more to her than words, for Piero was an

unfailing stroke.

"It is the men only of whom the Republic hath need," she explained,

unflinchingly; "but for the women there is no conflict of duty--the Holy

Church is first. 'Prayers for the women and deeds for the men'--thou

hast seen it written."

"And thy father?" Piero questioned, unconvinced, recalling the interview

of a few hours before.

A quick, tender light flashed and passed in her eyes; a ray of color

trembled on her cheek. "I shall grieve him," she said, "but he will

forgive, for ever hath he bidden me choose the right." Her voice broke

and she was silent, while she sought for some token in the folds of her

robe. "Thou wilt take him this when thou returnest, that he may know I

hold him dear."

"Marina!" he pleaded, growing eloquent, with a last desperate effort,

"thou wast ever an angel to the Zuanino--thou canst not leave thine own

bimbo!"

She did not answer immediately, but she clasped and unclasped her hands

passionately. "He is safe," she said at last, very low and struggling

for control. "He hath the blessing of the Holy Father, given when it

might avail; and the little ones are ever in the care of the Blessed

Mother. It is not for my baby that I needs must go--but for Marco and my

father, and for Venice. Santissima Maria, because thou sendest me, shalt

thou not grant the strength!"

There was a silence between them while they floated on, for Piero had

many things to think of. He was accustomed to accomplish whatever he

undertook, for he was not a man to fail from lack of resource, nor to be

overcome by fears and scruples. By means of his passes and his favor

with the government he could reach the borders of the Venetian dominions

without suspicion, from whence he would escort Marina to the nearest

convent and place her in safety with the Mother Superior, to whom he

would confide the story of her distinguished guest and secure for her

the treatment due to a Venetian princess; which, under the

circumstances, would be an easy matter, as no member of a noble Venetian

house espousing the side of Rome would be met with any but the most

flattering reception. To provide Marina with companionship, Piero had

confided her intended flight to the Lady Beata Tagliapietra, being sure

of her devotion; and she would be waiting for them at Padua with two

trusted gondoliers and whatever might be needful from the wardrobe of

the Lady of the Giustiniani. The fact that he had broken his promise of

secrecy did not trouble him, since it was in Marina's service, which

made the action honorable; and were it not so, the little perjury was

well atoned for by a keg of oil anonymously sent to the traghetto of San

Nicolò è San Raffaele, "pel luminar al Madonna";[8] and Piero had much

faith in anonymous gifts, for confessions were not always convenient for

an officer of his dignity. But it was perhaps too much to expect that

these poor little traghetto lamps should be more than dimly luminous,

since the oil was so largely provided by fines for delinquencies!

[8] To light the Madonna.

With an easy conscience, also, he had helped himself to the requisite

funds for their journey, amply estimated, from the treasury of the

Nicolotti, which was in his keeping; and his reasoning savored of

Venetian subtlety, with a hint of his toso training. Had not the Lady of

the Giustiniani offered to guarantee the funds necessary for the

assessments of the state, when Piero, doubtful of their resources, would

have declined the position of gastaldo grande, cumbered as it was with

the uncomfortable requirement that the chief should be personally

responsible for all dues and taxes levied upon the traghetti? Piero was

not the first gastaldo who had wished to escape an honor that weighed so

heavily, and a very serious penalty was already decreed for such

contempt of office by that tribunal tireless in vigilance.

So, without compunction, Piero had taken the needful, sure that when he

returned Marina's husband or her father would repay it.

_Could_ he return--after helping a patrician to escape from Venice into

the heart of the country with which the Republic was at war? It looked

doubtful even to Piero, with his indomitable temperament, but he wasted

no sentiment upon this question; for if he might not return there were

other countries in which a man could live. Or, should he be pursued and

lighted upon by the far-seeing eye of the Ten, he could die but once and

get into trouble no more! He crossed himself decorously as he dismissed

the matter; but it was not an event that he could change by pondering.

There was another question that interested him more keenly at this

moment; when Messer Girolamo should know that his daughter was not in

Venice, could he fail to comprehend the hint he had given a few hours

before, and would he not follow them to Rome, as Piero devoutly hoped,

for he wished to leave Marina in her father's care. It was not easy to

predict what Messer Girolamo might do--the case had been too doubtful

for a more explicit confession, and Piero had been wise in his

generation.

He turned now to Marina with the question: "If thou hadst told thy

father of thy wish mayhap he might have come with thee?"

She shook her head sadly and made no answer, but after awhile she said,

"He is like the others. They cannot understand the need, for to them the

Madonna hath not revealed the desperate state of Venice."

"Yet thou knowest, Marina, that already the great cardinal--but lately

come from France--hath started for Rome to make up this quarrel?"

"That is what the Senate will not understand!" she cried, with flashing

eyes. "The Holy Father will have submission and penance, in place of

embassies and pomp. One must go to him quite simply, from the people,

saying, 'We have sinned; have mercy upon Venice!' Piero, thou knowest

that awful vision of the Tintoret? It is Venice that he hath painted in

her doom--the great floods bursting in upon her--all the agony and the

anguish and the desolation of God's wrath! Santa Maria! I cannot bear

it!" She closed her eyes, shuddering and sick with terror.

"It was the way with Jacopo," said Pietro irreverently. "He was full of

freaks, and some demon hath tormented him. He was a man like others--not

one for a revelation."

"Hush, Piero!" she implored; "it breaks my heart! This also may be

counted against Venice, for it is the Holy Madonna who hath granted me

the vision."

If Piero was silent he was only restrained by deference to Marina from

invoking the aid of every saint in the calendar, in copious malediction,

on this miserable Jacopo who had so increased the trouble in Marina's

eyes--since women had such foolish faith in pictures.

"Jacopo Robusti, posing for a seer, and foretelling the end of the

world, like a prophet or a saint! _Goffone_!"[9] Piero was paddling

furiously. "Jacopo, of the Fondamenta del Mori--not better than

others--with that boastful sentence blazoned on his door!--'The coloring

of Titian, with the drawing of Angelo!'"

[9] Great fool!

But he forgot even his resentment against Jacopo in his anxiety as he

watched Marina, asking himself if it would be possible for her to pray

herself back into healthful life again, even in the dominions of the

Holy Father; for he realized that nothing could help her but this one

thing on which her heart was set--while he was yet, if possible, more

utterly without sympathy for the fear that moved her than her father or

Marcantonio had been. But if the one woman in Venice had but one desire,

however desperate and incomprehensible,--"_Basta_! It is enough," said

Piero to himself,--she should not die with it unfulfilled, if he could

compass it.

Yet, at the thought of death his heart sank. "It was the Madonna which

thou beheldest in thy vision--not the cross?" he asked her quickly,

making the fateful sign as he spoke, to avert this dread presage of

death, and afraid of her answer; for Marina was failing before his eyes,

and doubtless, in her vision, there had been some apparition of a cross;

and even the less devout among the gondoliers were still dominated by

some of the superstitions which gave a picturesque color to the habits

of the people.

But she, too earnest in her faith to take any note of a less serious

mood, answered simply:

"It was the very Madonna herself, as thou knowest her in San Donato, who

came to me in the palazzo one night when I slept not, and gave me the

mission to save Venice,--scarce able to speak for her great sadness,

and the tears dropping, as thou knowest her in San Donato,--commanding

me to go before the Holy Father and pray for mercy to Venice. She it was

who told me that our prayers pass not up beyond the clouds which hang

above a city under doom of interdict. Oh, Piero, hasten; for my strength

is little, and Rome is far!"

When the Lady of the Giustiniani had sent for Piero to meet her in Santa

Maria dell' Orto, to ask him to manage her escape to Rome, it had not

been possible to refuse her; all his attempts at reasoning were in vain.

"I must go," she said, with that invincible persistence which he never

could combat. "If thou wilt not help me, I go alone." She was kneeling

before the terrible "Judgment" of the Tintoret, and the face she had

lifted to him in appeal was white with agonized comprehension.

The journey had been long and wearisome; all day they had been slowly

toiling against the tide; and long since Piero had summoned to his aid a

trusted gondolier who had been ordered to follow them at a little

distance, and who, at a sign from the gastaldo, had silently left his

bark to drift and taken his place at the other end of the gondola in

which the fugitives were making their way to Padua.

They had passed the domain of the Laguna Morta, weird and

half-forbidding, with tangles of sea-plants and upspringing wild fowl

calling to each other with hoarse cries across the marshes--with armies

of water beetles zigzagging in the shallows, and crabs and lizards

crawling upon the scattered sand heaps among the coarse sea-grasses,

while small fish brought unexpected dimples to the deeper pools that lay

between. And the mingled odor of waters fresh and salt was broken into a

breath now pungent and pleasant, now almost noisome, as the light breeze

stirred the shallows of this strange domain which was neither land nor

sea. Yet even here the pale sea-holly and the evening primrose made

redeeming spots of beauty, with their faint hues of violet and yellow;

and a distant water-meadow shimmered like the sea, with the tender blue

of the spreading lavender.

They had passed Fusina, and the lagoon lay silvery, like a trail of

moonlight behind them--Venice in the distance, opalesque, radiant, a

city of dreams. The clouds above them, beautiful with changing sunset

lights, were no longer mirrored on a still lagoon, but mottled the

broken surfaces of the river with hues of bronze and purple, between the

leaves of the creeping water-plants which clogged the movement of the

oars; for they had exchanged the liquid azure pavement of their "Città

Nobilissima" for the brown tide of the Brenta. On the river's brink the

rushes were starred with lilies and iris and ranunculus, and the

fragrance of sheeted flowers from the water-meadows came to them fresh

and delicious, mingled with the salt breath of the sea, while

swallows--dusky, violet-winged--circled about their bows, teasing their

progress with mystic eliptical flight--like persistent problems

perpetually recurring, yet to be solved by fate alone.

It was the hour of the Ave Maria, and Marina roused herself from her sad

reverie. The clouds piled themselves in luminous masses and drifted

into the hollows of the wonderful Euganean hills, and a crimson sunset

tinged peaks and clouds with glory, as Padua with its low arcaded

streets, and San Antonio--cousin to San Marco in minarets and Eastern

splendor--and the Lion of Saint Mark upon his lofty column, closed the

vista of their weary day. The chimes of Venice were too far for sound,

but from every campanile of this quaint city the vesper bells, solemn

and sweet, pealed forth their call to prayer--as if no threat of Rome's

displeasure made a discord in their harmony.