“But because He hath made thee great, He hath given thee thy conscience for thy guide, as mine to me; which holdeth me from grief over-much, for I know thee to be true and great.

“Therefore for peace, and not for gladness, have I left thee; for reverence to the Holy Father, and for the better keeping of all my vows.

“If perchance, at the feet of the Holy Father, my prayers and penances might, by miracle, avail to turn his wrath from Venice—­it could not hurt thee!

“Yet because of this wish, which only holdeth life in me,—­so sore is my heart at leaving Venice and thee and our dear home of the Servi,—­well I know that never more mine eyes shall see these places of my love—­and thee, my friend!

“If we learn by the way of pain, after this life God will forgive our errors!

“FRANCESCO, thy brother of the Servi.”

XXIII

As the cry of the populace rang down the Canal Grande, following the retreating ranks of the Jesuits, who, bound by their greater vows to Rome, had remained steadfast and refused obedience to the Senate’s mandate, the Lady Marina, roused by the excitement which they dreaded, had started to her feet with a marvelous return of her former mental power and a fullness of comprehension which sought for no explanations.  She stood for a moment panting with hot, unspoken speech, turning from one to another, and then, with a sudden, great effort, repressed the words she would have spoken, asking quietly, after a pause in which no reference had been made to the expulsion of the confraternities: 

“Which of the orders have gone?  What more hath happened that I know not?”

“Nay, the orders of the monks and of the friars have chiefly been faithful to Venice,” they told her, “and all is well.  This society, which for long hath been cause of much disorder in our Republic, it is well that it leave Venice in peace.”

She answered nothing, weighing their words silently.  “Is it because they are faithful to their vows, and to their Church?” she asked at length, in quiet irony.

“Nay, but because they teach disobedience to princes and would thus undermine the law of the land,” Marcantonio hastened to explain, grateful that she could at length discuss the question.  “Carina,—­blessed be San Marco,—­thou art like thyself!  We will talk together; we will make all clear to thee; thou shalt grieve no more, carinissima!”

She put up her hand and touched his cheek with an answering caress—­the first through all these weary days.  “I shall get well, Marco mio,” she said, with a sudden conviction that surprised them; but still there was no smile in her eyes, and their hearts were sad, though the change that had come over her was so extraordinary that they hoped much from the explanation which the great Santorio had authorized.

But for whom should they send in this moment, when life and death hung in the balance, to speak that authoritative word.