The gondolas of the people were gathering about the steps of the palaces, bringing their burdens for the day’s ongoings in those luxurious homes; the bells were calling to early Mass; the stir of life was beginning in the city; soon, in her own palace, her little one would wake, and Marco—­She stood with straining eyes, yearning for the chance of a face in her palace window—­the bare last chance of another sight of his dear face.  She did not know that Piero was watching her—­compassionate and comprehending—­while she was struggling to outlive the agony for the very love’s sake which made it so keen.

It was the only sweetness left in life for her, that this cruel parting was yet for Marco’s sake; that she might still plead with the Holy Father for this desperate need of which Marco seemed unconscious—­since, in a vision never to be forgotten, the blessed Madre of San Donato had confided this mission to her.  She could bear everything to win such a blessing for her beloved ones, only she must reach Rome—­surely the Madre Beatissima would let her live to reach the Holy City!

The tide was brimming the canals, rising over the water steps; the growing light gleamed coldly on the polished marbles of her palace, burnishing the rich gold fretwork of frieze and tracery—­but not any face of any dear one responded to her hungry longing, watching for her in the deep spaces of the windows, in token of the love from which she was fleeing.

This also—­this last longing—­she must surrender!

Her white face grew brave again; she sat down and drew her veil—­the ample fazzuolo of the Muranese—­more closely about her.  “I am ready,” she said, and turned her face resolutely forward.

As they rounded San Giorgio, turning into the broad Giudecca, a shoal of little boats came over the water from Murano.

“They are the nuns of San Donato!” she said in amazement, and drawing her veil closer.  “Piero, canst thou not ask their whither?”

It was so strange, on this morning of all others, to see them turn in the direction of Ca’ Giustiniani; there came a vision of her chapel, which her maidens were decking—­of the dear altar, at which she should kneel no more—­and she held her breath to hear the answer.

“Will the most Reverend Mother bless the boat of a gondolier of the people; and his sister, who hath been ill and craveth the morning air?” Piero, who had discarded every emblem of his office, and wore only the simple dress of the Nicolotti, put the question easily, without fear of recognition.  “And there is no great trouble in the city which calleth these illustrious ladies so early from Murano?”

“Nay; but the Senator Giustiniani hath prayed us for a grace to his sweet lady, for the chapel hath been closed while she hath been too ill for service; and to-day it will be opened, dressed with flowers, and we—­because she loveth greatly our Madonna of San Donato and hath shown bounty, with munificent gifts, to all the parish—­will chant the matins in her oratory.”