She had started away from him almost resentfully, that he could charge her—­whose fealty to her Church was killing her—­with neglect of any duty it imposed; but, out of her larger love, she understood him better than he knew her, and she forgave him and nestled back again.  He had not been brought up to place the requirements of the Church before the commands of Venice,—­few patricians were in those days,—­she could not make him realize the awful restrictions of that ban which, by her strict teaching, made it impossible for the faithful to worship in Venice while it remained unwithdrawn; yet he could count it as non-existent!

She was glad that she had felt the tumult of his heart while he answered her so calmly; it made her realize what it cost him to deny her prayer; it assured her that a staunch sense of duty underlay his strength; pitilessly it assured her also that he would not change, and the very firmness which came between them made her love and admire him the more.  In the midst of her pain she was proud that he also had conscience on his side, however misguided it seemed to her.  Why did the good Madonna permit these differences?  How was it possible for Marco, with his quick, intellectual grasp, not to comprehend the truth—­not to see the terrors that Venice had brought upon herself!  He was suffering also, but only because she suffered; never would he understand her agony; the rudest, crudest weight of the cross she must lift alone, weary and spent with the bitter struggle.

She summoned all her strength to answer him as though the words were easily spoken.  “Since it is not Fra Francesco, whom we love,” she said, “I know no other; choose thou, my Marco.”

His face flushed with pleasure that her resistance seemed conquered.  “And when we have found our confessor, shall we go together—­thou and the little one and I,” he asked brightly, “to the Island of Sant’ Elena, which thou lovest, and we ourselves bring flowers to deck our chapel?  For it hath been long since Mass was said therein.”

“Yes, Marco mio,” she answered to the love in his voice, struggling to repress every accent of dissent; for in her heart she told herself that the chapel of the palazzo Giustiniani was his, not hers, since their faith was divided; “and for me only, not for him, to worship there is sin.  And the beautiful day together, alone on the island with the flowers—­it is the gift of the Holy Mother to help me endure!”

And her husband, as he left her, carried with him a smile that satisfied him.

But, turning in the doorway for another glance—­so sweet it was to have her all his own again—­a pang shot through him, for the glory was gone from her face—­or was it the shadow that made it so wan and gray?—­and no smile hid the questioning anguish of her eyes.  Nay, he himself was fanciful, for it was too far to see, and he could not shake off the sadness of the days that were past.  But he must teach himself to forget them.  For Marina had smiled at him, radiantly, as in the sweet, old days; and together they would deck the chapel for a benediction!