It had pleased the whim of the Republic to make some ecclesiastical parade on this festa of Venice which followed so closely upon the prosaic closing scene of the quarrel with Rome, wherein no churchly pomp had been permitted; and as Marina’s bewildered gaze steadied itself upon the noble group of the Signoria, with whom to-day, in great state, sat the Patriarch of Venice with mitre and hierarchical robes and all the attendant group of Venetian bishops, a look of intense relief suddenly flashed over the trouble in her eyes—­as if that which she had sought with such long suffering no longer eluded her.

“Madre Beatissima!” she cried, clasping her crucifix closely to her breast, and raising her eyes to heaven, “I thank thee!”

The light grew upon her face.

As her whole life had been merged in this struggle which had only conquered her overwrought heart and brain when she had felt that the Madonna had deserted her and delivered her to the wrath of Venice, so now, in her hallucination,—­since the Madonna had brought her to Rome,—­her faith and power of speech suddenly returned, and she rallied all her strength to fulfil her mission.

In that great and sumptuous Hall, flaunting and gay with banners which chronicled the victories and the power of the Republic—­in the impregnable stronghold of the realm, under the astonished gaze of the entire Venetian court and the brilliant throng of the households of nobles and ambassadors who looked down from the circling galleries, expectant and awestruck under the spell of so strange a vision—­this pale, slight champion of a desperate spiritual struggle, with no host to help her save her prayers and faith, with no standard but the cross clasped to her breast, knelt at the feet of the Patriarch, while the sunset light through the broad western window made a radiance where she knelt—­as if Heaven at last had smiled upon her.

“Oh, Holy Father!” she implored, “have mercy upon Venice!  Forgive her unfaithfulness, because she hath meant no sin!

“The Madonna hath granted me to reach Rome at last, because she hath laid her command upon me in a vision and it could not fail.  But all those, my loved ones, have I lost by the weary way; and save for her mercy I could not have reached thee.

“With prayers and penance have I striven—­and ceased not—­since the anguish of thy displeasure came upon Venice.  Oh, Holy Father! for all the mothers who understand and grieve, and for our innocent little ones, and for all those, our beloved, who are good and noble—­and yet know not the hard way of submission, because the Lord hath taught them some other way—­lift thy wrath from Venice, that our Heavenly Father hide not his face in clouds too heavy for our prayers to reach him!

“It is the will of the Madonna San Donato—­thou canst not refuse to lift the doom!”

The words leaped over each other like a torrent—­impetuous, passionate, as if the moments for speech were few.