“To Murano, near the Stabilimento Magagnati, Eccellenza,” she answered without hesitation, lifting the baby in her arms to escape the rough help of the gondolier, who reached forward to hasten his stumbling movements.

And so they floated off from the traghetto—­the Madonna that was to be, into the deepening twilight, while the Veronese, a splendid and incongruous figure amid these lowly surroundings, leaned against the paltry column that supported the shrine, wrapped in a delicious reverie of creation; for he was unused to failure and he had no doubts, though he had not yet proffered his request.

“To-morrow,” he said, “I will paint that face!”

* * * * *

“By our Lady of Murano!” the gondolier cried suddenly.  “He spoke to thee like a queen—­and it was Paolo Cagliari!  What did he want with thee?”

“Not me, Piero; it was the child.  He wished to give him flowers.  I knew he must be great to care thus for our ‘bimbo.’  It was really he—­the Veronese?”

“The child!  Santa Maria!  He is not too much like a cherub that the great painter should notice him!”

The baby threw out his little clenched fist, striking against the protecting arms that held him closer, his face drawn with sudden pain; for a moment he fought against Marina, and then, the spasm over, settled wearily to sleep in her arms.

“Poverino!” said the gondolier softly, while Marina crooned over him an Ave Maria, and the gondola glided noiselessly to its cadence.

“Piero,” she said, looking up with eyes full of tears, “sometimes I think I cannot bear it!  He needs thy prayers as well as mine—­wilt thou not ask our Lady of San Donato to be kinder to him?  And I have seen to-day, on the Rialto, a beautiful lamp, with angels’ heads.  Thou shouldst make an offering——­”

The gondolier shook his head and shrugged his shoulders; he had little faith or reverence.  “I will say my aves, poveriello,” he promised; “but the lamps are already too many in San Donato.  And for the bambino, I will go not only once, but twice this year to confession—­the laws of our traghetto ask not so much, since once is enough.  But thou art even stricter with thy rules for me.”

She did not answer, and they floated on in silence.

“To-morrow,” said Piero at length, “there is festa in San Pietro di Castello.”

She moved uneasily, and her beautiful face lost its softness.

“It is nothing to me,” she answered shortly.

“It is a pretty festa, and Messer Magagnati should take thee.  By our Lady of Castello, there are others who will go!”

“It would be better for the bambino,” he persisted sullenly, as she did not answer him.  His voice was not the pleasanter now that its positive tone was changed to a coaxing one.

“One is enough, Piero,” she said.  “And for the festa of San Pietro in Castello—­never, never name it to me!”