He clasped her close, holding her firmly, as if to infuse her with his faith.  “All blessings are for those who do the right, Marina; we need not fear.”

Never had she seen his face so inspired, so masterful, so tender; it was a revelation.  The whole of their beautiful love story was written on it, mastering all the traditions of Venice, yet binding him more closely to the service of his country.

For a moment she looked at him awestruck, longing to give the submission which would bring her rest; it was not strange that she loved him so; oh, if she might but acquiesce in his view of right!  Madre Beatissima, life was hard, and the way of right was the way of the cross—­how many holy women had found it so!  One hand stole to the little crucifix beneath her robe and pressed its roughened surfaces into her breast, for she must not place the sweetness of this earthly love before the duty of the heavenly one.  “Santa Maria, save me!” she prayed, while, only for one moment, she drooped her head to his shoulder and nestled close, that he should know her heart was his, whatever came—­whatever came.

Was it strange that her agony threatened her reason?  In that one little moment of comfort, which she yearned to hold free from suffering that its remembrance might uphold her, the powerful vision of the Tintoretto’s awful Judgment rose beckoningly before her.  It was the doom of Venice, and she alone—­so impotent—­recognized the danger.

The vision pursued her night and day.  The River of the Wrath of God, leaping up to meet those frowning skies of His most just anger, and Venice—­superb, disdainful—­overwhelmed between; the cloud of innumerable souls, tortured and writhing, fleeing from before the face of the Holy One, no more than a mere film of whirling atoms, falling—­falling into an abyss of horrors—­the dim, doomed shapes wearing faces that had smiled into hers—­With an inarticulate moan she hid her face on her husband’s shoulder.

“Marco,” she whispered with an effort, for her strength was spent, “not though it were a vision, revealed by the Madonna San Donato, thou wouldest take me to Rome?  Not though I could make thee comprehend what it means for me—­and thee?”

She waited breathlessly for his answer, with pulses that seemed to pause for the momentous decision, not daring to look at him lest she should falter and retract; for never again would she ask this question, which, even now, she had put in the form of an assertion.

“Nay, Marina, the Madonna asketh naught of thee but that which gracious women must give—­submission to their princes—­in which, beloved, thou seemest to fail; and duty to thy Church, in which thou, having ever been before all others, art now neglectful.  For from the altar of your home no Masses ascend, no fragrance of flowers nor praise.  Venice is more faithful in that which she commands, and we, carina, may not longer disregard her will without suspicion of disloyalty.  Since Fra Francesco is no longer here, I will apply for some new ministrant.  Hast thou a wish in this choice of a priest for the service of our oratory?”