“Il Marconino!  Il Marconino!”

There was a brief moment of confusion from the coming and going of barges,—­a short delay which brimmed their excitement to the fever pitch,—­then the waters cleared again of their floating craft, and the Senator Marcantonio Giustiniani stepped forth on the deck to christen the gift of his child.

The people looked, and would have shouted—­but forebore—­gazing awestruck.

As he stood, firmly planted upon the prow, the crimson drapery of his senator’s robe parted and disclosed the firm young vigor of his limbs, in their silken hose, and his very attitude showed power.  But he wore the face of a young Greek god who had lightly dreamed that he could fashion Life out of grace and sunshine, and had waked to carve Endurance out of Agony.

The child, held high in his arms, was radiant in the sunshine, its rosebud mouth parting over pearly teeth in dimpling glee, the breeze lifting the light rings of hair that caressed his soft, round throat, the hands waving in childish ecstasy and grace.  As they stood, just over the beautiful bust of the “Marconino” which Vittorio had carved upon the prow, child and father were an embodiment of the play of the crested foam over the deep trouble of the waves beneath.

“Was it thus that the nobles took their triumphs?” the people questioned low of each other.  “And where was the Lady Marina, the daughter of Messer Magagnati—­their lady, who had been good to the people?”

“She was there—­within,” some one answered, “she was not strong—­the salutes were too much for her.  She was waiting within, with her maidens.”

“To miss such a beautiful festa!  Santa Maria!”—­the strong peasant mothers, clasping their infants in their arms, with prattling, barefooted children clinging to their mantles—­so glad for this glimpse of holiday—­looked again at the beautiful, stern face of this father who had youth and gifts and wealth, his seat in the Consiglio, his boy in his arms—­but no smile for the people pressing around him ready to shout his name, and they crossed themselves with a nameless yearning and dread.

But the nobles, with more understanding, looked upon him and forgot their jealousy.

For the Lady Marina was within, waiting with her maidens in a private chamber of the arsenal until the hour of the banquet, when her presence had been required by the Signoria.  Only so much had her father—­the giver of the gift—­and Marcantonio, on this day of honor to his name—­been able to obtain of the imperious Republic.  There were rumors afloat, questions were asked, and the body of nobles must bear witness to the clemency of the State, who could be gracious in forgiving.  If the Lady of the Giustiniani might not have the custody of her child, it was not that because of her transgressions they would refuse her any grace or honor.

Meanwhile Giustinian Giustiniani, standing proudly erect among the nobles of the Doge’s suite, searched the crowd for further homage, and wondered at the silence when the charming figure of the baby Marconino danced in his father’s arms—­a very embodiment of life and glee.