“Thus hath our lady been, and naught hath moved her,” she said low, and in distress, “since the Secretary of the Serenissimo, who with much futile reasoning hath sought to change her, hath taken his leave, save that ever and anon she hath opened her eyes to watch the door and bid us pray for Venice.”

Her husband had reached her side and taken her listless hand before Marina had noticed his approach; but there was no smile in her eyes as she raised them to his—­only a look of unutterable misery.

“Is there no hope?” she questioned.  Her fingers, weakly folded about his, were burning.

He controlled himself with a great effort.

“Yes, carina, every hope.  All is well; and the Serenissimo hath been most gracious.  To-morrow, when thou hast had thy rest, he will send to thee the Reverend Counsellor Padre Maestro Paolo, that he may quiet all thy fears.  For all is well.”

She tried to draw him nearer, but her hand dropped powerless.  “The vote?” she questioned, with her eager eyes; and, more falteringly, with that hoarse, broken whisper which pierced his heart.

“It is well,” he answered her tenderly.  “Carinissima, all is well.”

She fixed him with terror-stricken eyes, in which her soul seemed burning and her lips moved with a question he could not hear.  He bent closer, touching her cheek caressingly.

“The vote?” she had asked again.

“Tell her the count,” said the Lady Beata, with an imperious touch on his wrist; “it is killing her.”

The Senate had adjourned in triumph; without a dissenting voice Venice had rallied to the support of her prince.  Marcantonio had thought he should be proud to tell her of this unanimous action of their august body, which could not fail to restore her confidence and quiet her fears.  But now he could not find the words he sought, for never had he looked into eyes so full of a comprehending woe.

“Marina,” he began.  “Carinissima—­” helplessly repeating his powerless assurance:  “It is well.”

Still her deep eyes seemed to question him relentlessly, though she did not speak; her gaze fascinated him, and he could not withdraw his eyes until he had read in hers the great agony he had so lightly estimated—­the agony of a soul deeply religious, of unquestioning faith in the strictest doctrine and dogma of the Church of Rome; the grief of such a soul, tenderly compassionate for the suffering brought upon an innocent people by no rebellion of its own; the terror of this soul—­passionately loving—­measuring the horrors of an unblessed life and death for all its dearest ones.

“All?” she had seemed to question him, leaning nearer, and Marcantonio could not answer; but he saw, from the deepening horror in her eyes, that she understood.  She knew that he had helped to bring the doom.  Oh, if he could but have told her that he had not voted—­that he had withheld his one little vote from Venice to comfort her!  If, for this once, he had failed to give what Venice expected of him, only for Marina’s sake!