Marcantonio, in spite of his deep home anxiety, was becoming more and more absorbed in the affairs of a government which made such claims upon him, and for the honor of his house, by all Venetian tradition, he must give to the full that which was exacted of him.  But he worked without the brilliancy and enthusiasm of a few months past—­as a man steadied by some great sorrow, striving more strenuously to give of his best where honor is concerned, because he is conscious that the heaviness of his heart makes all duty irksome.

For Marina, with returning health,—­the physicians spoke of her thus since they had pronounced her out of danger,—­had not fully returned to him; it was less her whiteness and wanness that oppressed him than that nameless change in the face and eyes which suggested a ceaseless, passionate suppression of the deep, impassioned self, under the listless exterior; there was an immeasurable loss in the sweetness of life to them both, though never since the early days of their love had he been so tender and patient, so eager to gladden her in little ways.  But she answered his love more often with a mute caress of her hand upon his cheek than with smiles or words—­yet with a touch that lingered, as if to assure him that her love was not less, though she herself was changed.

Something terribly real lay between them, of which it seemed better not to speak, since all his efforts to change her point of view had failed.  It was utterly sad to have her so nearly herself again, and yet so far from him.  Life was hard for this young senator with his multiplied honors, his wealth, and prestige.  Marina had always given impetus to his life; now it was he who watched and cared for her, while she seemed to have no will for anything, yet had lost that old charming ingenuousness which had underlain her power.  He had promised himself, out of his new pathetic yearning when she had begun to improve, that never again should she know an ungratified wish, yet now he feared that she would give him no opportunity of granting a request, so apathetic had she grown.  But one day, when he was trying to rouse her to express a desire, she laid her hand eagerly on his, asking a thing so strange that unconsciously he started away from her.

“Marco, mio, take me to Rome!”

For a moment, in spite of all that had gone before, the young Senator was betrayed into a forgetfulness of his tender mood—­it was so strange, this request of a Lady of the Giustiniani, to choose Rome rather than Venice at a time of contest; but her face and manner and speech were luminous with hope; she was radiant again, as she had not been for many months; yet the words escaped from him unintentionally and sternly: 

“To Rome!”

“Yes, Marco, thou and I and the little one!  We should be so happy again in the palazzo Donatello, where baby came to us.”

“Marina, a Giustinian abides by Venice.  From the days when every man of the Ca’ Giustiniani—­save only the priest, who might not take up arms—­laid down his life before Lepanto, none hath ever forsaken Venice.”