He drew the scattered papers together, but the lines, blurred and confused, carried no meaning; the fragments of broken glass in the little trays beside him were a dull, untranslucent gray, and written all over papers and fragments, in vivid letters that burned into his brain, were those other terrible words of Piero’s which he had tried in vain to forget—­“Thy daughter is dying for this curse.” Marina—­dying!

How should Piero know more about Marina than her own father knew?  Did he profess to be a physician that one should credit his every word?  What did he mean by his impudent boast of “dying for her, if need should be!” Had she not her husband and father to care for her?  Her husband “who was denying her the only thing that could give her life and peace,” Piero had said.—­What was the matter with his insulting words, that he could not forget them?—­Had she not her father, who was going to her on the morrow, when he had matured his plans, and would do whatever she wished—­“in Venice”?  Her father “who loved her, as his own soul”—­that was what he had said to Piero, with the memory of all those dear years when they had been all in all to each other, in this home.

Was it for hours or moments only that he sat in torture—­enduring, reasoning, placing love against pride, Marina against Venice, Venice against a father’s weakness, duty to the Republic before the need of this only child who was “soul of his soul”?

The last of his race—­inheriting the traditions and passionate attachments of that long line of loyal men who had founded and built up the stabilimento which was the pride of Murano; of the people, yet ennobled by the proffer of the Senate, and grandsire to the son of one of the highest nobles of the Republic—­what was there left in life for him away from Venice?  How should he bear to die dishonored and disinherited by the country which he had deserted in her hour of struggle?  For never any more might one return who should desert Venice for Rome!

And those panes of brilliant, crystal clarity which he had dreamed of adding to the honors of the Stabilimento Magagnati—­so strong that a single sheet might be framed in the great spaces of the windows of the palaces and show neither curve nor flaw—­so pure that their only trace of color should come from a chance reflection which would but lend added charm—­these might not be the discovery of his later days, though the time was near in which this gift must come to Venice.  He had not dreamed that he could ever say, while strength yet remained to think and plan, “The house of Magagnati has touched its height, and others may come forward to do the rest for Venice.”

And the secret lay so near—­scarcely eluding him!