In the days when they had been dwellers under the same roof Piero had never been able to disregard Marina’s will, often as he had chafed under the necessity of yielding to it; and now, since she was Lady of the Giustiniani, it had not been otherwise in the rare instances when it had pleased her to require anything of him.  Yet it would have been incongruous to charge Piero with over-sensitiveness on the side of chivalry, though Marina’s power over him was still as great as in those old days when, being unable to shake himself free from her influence, he had wished to marry her to make it less.

Piero was not introspective, but he doubtless knew that his ruling passion was to achieve whatever purpose he might choose to set himself.  The Nicolotti knew it well when, a few months before, they had unanimously elected him to rule over them—­as their chief officers had realized it when they had nominated him, without a dissenting voice, to this position of gastaldo grande—­a position of great honor fully recognized by the government.  So the rival faction of the Castellani bore marvelous testimony to his mastery when they went over in surprising numbers from along the Giudecca, and underwent the strange ceremonial of baptism into the opposition party.

Yet when the rival factions of the people had thus conspired to make him their chief it was Marina who had alone induced him to accept the honor.  To all his objections her answer had been ready: 

“Nay, Piero, it is meet for thee; they need one strong and brave, of whom they stand in dread, who knoweth their ways—­”

“As much bad as good,” Piero had interposed frankly, and not without asseverations well known to gondoliers.

“It is well said,” she had answered, with the comprehension born of her intimate knowledge of the class; “and to keep them in order—­verily, none but thou canst do it.”

Piero gave an expressive shrug, having had enough of compliment. “En avanti—­c’e altro!” he said, laughing.  “The taxes are heavy, and their Excellencies the tax-gatherers have less patience than the poor gondoliers bring of zecchini to the purse of the Nicolotti.  But the gastaldo hath as little liberty of delay, as their Excellencies leave him to decline the burden—­I might better make shipwreck in the Canale Orfano.”

It was in this canal that the victims of the Inquisition mysteriously disappeared, and Marina had repressed a shudder while she answered, “Thou wilt come to me, Piero, if the purse of the Nicolotti weighs little; thou shalt not fail, for this, of wearing the honor of gastaldo grande.

“Nay,” she had added, quickly disposing of his awkward attempts at thanks, “think not of it again; it is for my pleasure to see thee great among the people, for I also and my father are of them.  It is this that I have always wished for thee.”