“These do I bring—­and these, for an offering!” she cried, feverishly unclasping the lustrous pearls from her throat and girdle and laying them at the feet of the Patriarch.  “And all the dear happiness of my life have I given, that I might reach thee with this prayer for Venice!  Oh, Holy Father, accept my sacrifice!”

She reverently pressed the hem of the priestly robe to her lips, and those who knew of her flight from Venice understood that she fancied she had reached the Roman Court and was kneeling in the presence of the Sovereign Pontiff; but in their amazement that she alone, who was dying from the grief of it, did not know that the interdict had been removed, it had not seemed possible to answer her.

But there was no room for anger as they listened—­though her plea was a judgment on the court of Venice—­for her voice thrilled them with its unearthly sadness, and, looking into her beautiful, spirit face, they saw that all her consciousness was merged in her intense realization of the utmost terror of the curse, and in her one burning hope—­to which all things else were as nothing and in which she herself was wholly lost.

The Patriarch, moved with immeasurable compassion, raised her tenderly.  “My daughter,” he said, in a voice that trembled with feeling, “Venice is restored to favor.  The Interdict is removed!”

Through the stern assembly a wave of sympathy surged irresistibly, impelling them to comfort this lovely, grieving lady, distraught by anguished brooding.  Scarcely knowing that their emotion expressed itself in words, they caught up the Patriarch’s answer and echoed it from group to group—­from gallery to gallery—­until it gathered impetus and rolled like a Hallelujah Chorus through the vast, vaulted chamber.

“Venice is restored to favor; the Interdict is removed!”

The light grew upon her face.

How should it seem strange to her that her prayer at the feet of the Holy Father had wrought this pardon for Venice—­was it not for this that the blessed Madonna of San Donato had sent her?  She had promised blessing for sacrifice!

She stood for a moment, radiant, while the chorus of many voices throbbed around her—­her face like an angel’s for joy and love—­a glorified vision in the parting rays of the evening sun—­then her faint fluttering breath died in a Benedicite!

* * * * * The vesper bells of Venice came softly through the twilight, calling to Ave Maria.