Ay, she had loved him, with a holy reverence, for his goodness and gentleness and faith; for his inflexible grasp of duty, according to his views of right; for his teachings, which she could understand and which she believed the Holy Mother had taught him—­for his self-denial and suffering.

And now, for a few moments, she forgot herself—­forgot to watch for Marco, her thoughts busied with the sad tale of Fra Francesco, which Piero, always in viaggio for business of the Senate, had told her but a few days before—­news that had reached him from the frontier.  The gentle confessor had indeed completed his pilgrimage, barefooted, to Rome, but had gained no favor with the Holy Father; having at first been welcomed as a deserter from the enemy’s camp, flattered, and plied with questions, to which Fra Francesco gave no answers—­wishing no harm to Venice nor to any who sat in the councils of the Republic.  Whereupon his lodgings had been changed and all communications with the brothers of the Servite chapel in Rome had been forbidden.  And again, and more than once, he had been brought forth to be questioned; and again there had been nothing told of that which they sought, for they asked him of his friends, and his heart was true.  But it was told that he had used strange words.  “Each man is answerable to his own soul and to God for that which he believeth.  He answereth not for the faith of another man—­nor shall he bring danger upon his friend—­who hath also his conscience and God for judge of his faith and actions.”

“But what of Fra Paolo?” he had been asked; “How doth he defend himself for leading thus the cause of Venice against Rome?”

“Am I my brother’s keeper?” the gentle Fra Francesco had answered; and had said no more.

“Thou shalt at least show us how one may obtain speech with him, for the furtherance of his soul’s salvation—­apart from the vigilance of the Senate, and without suspicion in the convent that the message cometh from Rome, else were it not received in that unholy city.”

And in this also Fra Francesco was obdurate.  And then, for disobedience to authority, acknowledged lawful by his own submission, came prison—­wherein he languished, always obdurate,—­and death,—­perhaps from discontent or homesickness, one knows not; or from failure of his plans; or—­there was a question of torture, but one knows not if it were true.

“No, no, it was not true!” Marina had exclaimed, quivering, when Piero had told her the story.  “It is wicked to say these things—­and they are not true!”

But now, alone—­apart from all the brightness about her, from every hope of happiness except those few brief hours with Marco—­she did not know if it might not be true; her heart was too sad to deny any pain that had been or that might be; but Fra Francesco’s sad and gentle eyes seemed to smile upon her through whatever distance might be between them—­of this, or of any other world—­without reproach for those who had bidden him suffer, and charging her to keep her faith.