“It is not to forsake our Venice, Marco mio!” she cried, with growing eagerness, “but to serve her—­to plead with the Holy Father that he will remove the curse and let all the prayers of Venice ascend again to the Madre Beatissima, who listens no more!  It is a service for a Giustinian to render!”

Her whole soul pleaded in face and gesture, beautiful and compelling; he felt her old power reasserting itself; he almost groaned aloud as he put up his hand to shut out this beseeching vision of the wife whom he loved before all things but honor—­lest he, being among the trusted rulers of his country, should fail to Venice out of the great joy of granting to Marina the happiness she craved.

Not for an instant did the young Venetian noble question his duty, while with head averted, lest Marina should guess his struggle, he invoked that ever-present image of Venetia regnant, which all her children recognize, to stay him from forgetting it until this temptation were past and he could be strong again; but now he knew that he was weak from an irrepressible yearning to clasp Marina in his arms and grant her heart’s desire—­at whatever cost; he dared not touch her lest he should yield.

The moment’s silence intensified her eagerness and hope; he felt them burning in her eyes, and would not meet their prayer again.  But she could not wait, and her hand, fluttering restlessly upon his shoulder, crept up to touch his cheek, thrilling him unbearably, as if each sensitive finger-tip repeated her urgency.  He must yield if she kept it there.  He snatched her hand to his lips and dropped it quickly, nerving himself to speak steadily, lest he should betray irresolution—­so covering the tenderness which would have atoned for the positive refusal.

“Marina, a Venetian may not demean himself to ask forgiveness of the Holy Father in a matter wherein Venice hath not sinned—­but Rome.”

“Marco, my beloved, if Venice were mistaken!  If thou and I might save her!”

Her voice broke in a sob of agony, and her husband gathered her in his arms, struggling not to weep with her.  “Carina—­carinissima!” he repeated soothingly; yet, as she grew calmer, brought despair again.

“Nay, Marina, no loyal senator may question the decision of his government; thou presumest too far; but thine illness and thy suffering have made thee irresponsible.”

Then, grieving so to cross her in her weakness and pain, with all his tenderness in his voice, he hastened to atone for the firmness of the declaration which had sufficiently proved his staunchness.

“Marina, thou and I—­were we not Giustiniani—­more than all other Venetians owe our loyalty in time of stress; and for love of thee, beloved, shall Venice find me faithful in her need—­I and all my household true, and all my fortune hers in service, if need should be—­as thus I vowed, before them all, on that day when the Senate gave thee to me and made thee the sweetest patrician lady in all the land.  We will not fail them, beloved!”