“Not a separate power, Marco, only the representative of the Church, which is the supreme power.”

“These things are not for women to discuss,” he exclaimed in astonishment that she should attempt to reason on such a subject.

“Not for women, and not for men,” she answered quietly.  “The power of the Holy Father is by divine right.”

“Marina, if thou canst say so much, thou shalt understand the rest!” he cried desperately.  “So also is the power of temporal princes by divine right—­if not even more, as some of the authorities would have it.  But the temporal prince hath right only to that within his own jurisdiction.  Granting the divine right to the spiritual prince, it lieth only within his own province.  Paul V hath exceeded his rights.  Leonardo Donato, Serenissimo of the Republic, is not guilty in self-defense.”

She quivered as if a knife had been thrust through her; then, controlling herself by force, she dipped her fingers in the basin of holy water that stood upon the little altar.  “It is sacrilegious to speak against the Holy Father,” she said in a low, grieved tone, as she made the sign of the cross upon his breast.  “May God forgive thee, my dear one—­it is not thy fault.  But in the Senate they are misleading thee!”

“My sweet wife,” he answered, much troubled, and folding her closely.  “Do not grieve.  All will be well for Venice.  We shall not bring harm upon her.”

But she detected no yielding in his tone.  She lifted her head from his breast, and moved slightly away from him.

“Marco,” she asked firmly, “when is the vote to be cast?”

“To-day, before sunset, and I must not linger.  It would bring misfortune upon our house if I were to be absent in an affair of such moment.  Else would I not leave thee.”

She did not seek to detain him.

“Promise me that thou wilt be reasonable,” he said, looking back, as he parted the draperies of the doorway; “thou wilt not grieve.”

“A promise for a promise, Marco; thou hast given me none, and may the Madonna have mercy upon us!”

After a long, lingering look at the drooping figure of his wife he dropped the curtain and descended to his gondola, sombre in spirit because of the work that awaited him in the Senate Chamber; his footsteps lagged wearily upon the stone floor of the long, dark passage, and the brilliant outer sunshine flooded him with a sense of desperately needed relief.

When Marina moved it was to throw herself before the altar, resting her head upon her clasped hands, in an agony of supplication.

* * * * *

In the midst of an excited debate, immediately preceding the final vote, the door of the Senate Chamber was suddenly thrown open by the keeper, who announced in an awestruck tone: 

“A citizen claims the right of the humblest Venetian to bring before Messer the Doge a message of vital import in the question under discussion.”