in all Murano.  During all this time he had been coming more and more under her sway, changing his modes of living to suit her whims, and the only way of safety for him was to marry her and be master; then she should see how he would rule his house!  His own way had always been the right way for him—­rules of all orders to the contrary—­whether he had been a wandering gondolier, a despised barcariol toso, lording it so outrageously over the established traghetti that they were glad to forgive him his bandit crimes and swear him into membership, if only to stop his influence against them; or whether it had been the stealing away of a promised bride, as on that memorable day at San Pietro in Castello, when he had married Toinetta—­it was never safe to bear “vendetta” with one so strong and handsome and unprincipled as Piero.

Gabriele, the jilted lover of Toinetta, over whom Piero had triumphed, soon became the husband of another donzel, handsomer than Toinetta had been—­poor, foolish Toinetta!—­and the retributive tragedy of her little life had warmed the sullen Gabriele into a magnanimity that rendered him at least a safe, if a moody and unpleasant, member of the traghetto in which Piero had since become a rising star.  A man with a home to keep may not “cast away his chestnuts,” and so when Piero, in that masterful way of his, swept everything before him in the traghetto—­never asking nor caring who stood for him or against him, but carrying his will whenever he chose to declare it—­to set one’s self against such a man was truly a useless sort of fret, only a “gnawing of one’s chain,” in the expressive jargon of the people.

Piero finished his song, and there was a little pause.  They were nearing the long, low line of Murano.

“It is not easy,” he said, “when women are in the way, ’to touch the sky with one’s finger.’”

She turned with a sudden passionate motion as if she would answer him, and then, struggling for control, turned back without a word, drawing the child closer and caressing him until she was calm again.  When she raised her head she spoke in a resolute, restrained voice.

“Since thou wilt have it, Piero—­listen.  And rest thine oar, for we are almost home; and to-night must be quite the end of all this talk.  It can never be.  Thou hast no understanding of such matters, so I forgive thee for myself.  But for Toinetta—­I do not think I ever can forgive thee, may the good Madonna help me!”

“There are two in every marriage,” Piero retorted sullenly, for he was angry now.

“It is just that—­oh, it is just that!” Marina cried, clasping her hands passionately.  “Thou art so strong and so compelling, and thou dost not stop for the right of it.  She was such a child, she knew no better, poverina!  And thou—­a man—­not for love, nor right, nor any noble thing”—­the words came with repressed scorn—­“to coax her to it, just for a little triumph!  To expose a child to such endless critica!”