It was no mere empty jealousy, nor trivial wish for fame, nor greed of recompense—­of which he had enough—­that forced the veins out on the strong forehead of this master-worker, as he struggled with this question of surrendering all for his daughter’s peace.  It was the art in which his ancestors had taken the lead from the earliest industrial triumphs of the Republic—­an art in which Venice stood first—­and in his simple belief it was not less to their glory than the work of a Titian or a Sansovino.  In this field he wrought whole-hearted, with the passion of an artist who has achieved, and his place and part in the Republic, as in life, was bounded for him by his art.  “To stand with folded hands—­always, hereafter, to be unnecessary to Venice!”

How should one who had not been born in Venice ever guess the strange fascination of that magic city for her sons, or dream with what a passion the blood of generations of Venetian ancestry surged in one’s veins, compelling patriotism, so that it was not possible to do aught with one’s gifts and life that did not enhance the greatness of so fair a kingdom!  It was the wonderful secret of the empire of Venice that here the pride of self was counted only as a factor in the superior pride of her dominion.

Marina had been proud of his cabinet, and he took the little antique lamp she used to hold for him and unlocked the door with a tremulous hand, standing unsteadily before it and trying to hearten himself, as he ruthlessly flashed the light so that each fantastic bit came out in perfect beauty, glowing with the wonderful coloring of transparent gems.

But suddenly those fearful words of Piero’s played riot among them, obliterating every trace of beauty, every claim of Venice, every question as to his own judgment or Marina’s reasoning—­even the ignominy of the secret flight. “Thy daughter dying!”

The letters blazed like stars, gleaming among his papers—­glittering around the chair where Marina used to sit, climbing up into the air, closing nearer to him—­wavering, writhing lines of living fire, tracing those awful words he could not forget——­

“My God!” he cried, “is not Marina more than all!” There was no longer anything in life that he willed to do but to win peace for her, according to her whim.

“Stino!” he shrieked, with a voice louder than the clang of the rude iron bell whose rope had broken in his impetuous hand.

“Light me a fire in the brazier, and burn me this rubbish!” he commanded of the foreman who entered, aghast at the imperious summons, and yet more amazed at the destruction of those precious pages over which his master had spent days of brooding; but he ventured no protest.

“And here,” said Girolamo, with a look of relief, as the last paper shrivelled and curled into smoke, “are the keys of these cabinets—­thou knowest their contents, and that they are precious.  And here shalt thou remain, as master, until my return—­keeping all in order, as thou knowest how, and loyally serving the interest of the stabilimento.  All moneys which I may send for thou shalt instantly remit by trusty messenger.”