“My daughter,” said the Doge, in a tone full of consideration, “this is not fitting.  At another moment we will listen to thy request.  Thou mayest withdraw.”

“Serenissimo, Prince of Venice!” Marina cried, stretching forth her hands, “be gracious to me! Now must I speak my message, or it will be too late—­and it hath been granted me in a vision, for the welfare of the people of Venice. If the Ruler of this Republic will win the consent of the Senate and the Council to comply with the admonitions of the Most Holy Father, the day shall be happy for Venice.”

“Take her away—­she is distraught,” commanded one of the Chiefs of the Ten, starting forward.

There was a movement of irresolution among those immediately surrounding the Doge; but the Lady Marina, like one commissioned for a holy emprise, had no fear.

“Nay, for I claim my right, as citizen of Venice, to bring my grievance to the Doge’s throne!” she answered proudly.  “I am mother to a son who shall one day take his seat among the nobles of this Council; I am daughter to a man of the people,—­beloved by his own class and honorably known, in the records of the Ten, among the industries of Venice,—­who hath but now refused the seat of honor they would have granted him, that he might more truly serve the interests of the people; I am wife to a noble whose ancient name hath been written again and again in records of highest service most honorable to the Republic.  My grievance is the grievance of Venice—­of the nobles and the people!”

She spoke with the exaltation of inspiration, and there was a hush in the chamber, as if she had wrought some spell they could not break.

Presently into this silence a voice—­low, clear, emotionless—­dropped the consenting words, “Speak on, that justice be not defrauded by the half-told tale.”

Instinctively the eyes of the senators turned to the face of the Chief Counsellor, whose opinions had ruled the debate for many days past; but he sat serene and unmoved among his violet-robed colleagues, with no trace of sympathy nor speech upon his placid and inscrutable countenance.  If the words were his they were simply an impartial reminder of duty—­they concealed no opinion; the senators were to be the judges of the scene, and justice required them to listen.

They gave a quickened interest.

“I plead for the people, who have no representatives here—­for the people, who are faithful to the Church and dutiful to the Holy Father; let not this undeserved horror come upon them.  Leave them their heaven, who have no earthly paradise!”

The lady’s strength seemed failing, for the last words had come more painfully, though with a ring of passionate indignation.

Again Marcantonio Giustiniani broke from his detaining colleagues in an attempt to reach his wife; and a second time the hands of the Councillors waved him back.