After Fra Paolo had left the studio the Veronese was still studying his picture, pleased and serious, feeling that this man, who was not an artist, had comprehended the deepest mood in which he had ever approached his art, when Marina entered.

“Fra Paolo hath found our offering worthy,” he said very gravely; and suddenly remembering that Marina had come for the last time, “Benedetto hath need of me in the outer studio for some measurements,” he said to Marcantonio, “but I shall soon return.  Do thou, meanwhile, show the damigella thy sketch.”

She turned inquiringly toward Marcantonio, who placed it silently before her.  When he gathered courage to look at her she stood flushed and trembling with clasped hands.

“Marina!” he cried.

She moved suddenly away from him, drawing herself up to her full height, one hand slightly extended, as if to keep him from coming nearer; but her face, as she turned it frankly to his, was lighted with a smile the Veronese would never copy, and her eyes shone through her tears.

“Is it true, Marina?” he questioned radiantly, as he tried to seize her hand.

But she still moved backward—­not as if she were afraid, but as though she would help him by a motion to understand.

“You have confessed me unawares,” she said, “and shown me mine own secret, which I knew not.  It is not to confess nor deny.”

“Yet you move away, Marina, as if you would not have it so.”

“Because only the renunciation of it is for us,” she answered firmly.  “For I am of the people, and you—­of the Giustiniani!”

“As you shall also be!” he affirmed, undaunted.

“Marco, at Venice this is not easy!” The tone was a caress which she made no effort to withhold, yet he dared not try again to touch her hand; he already felt her strength.

“None the less, because it is not easy it shall be done.  Reach me your hand, Marina, to prove that you trust my vow.”

He was not wont to crave favor so humbly, but a new reverence had entered into his soul.

She hesitated for a moment, then her words came brokenly, yet with dignity.

“Marco mio, not yet.  Because I am of the people, and because the others—­your father and mother, who are of the nobles, and my father, who is of the people—­may not consent, we will make no vows until this difficulty is conquered.”

“They shall not keep us from it.”

She shook her head sadly, but came no nearer.  “Will Giustinian Giustiniani ask a daughter of the people?  But Girolamo Magagnati is not less proud.”

“I will return now with thee to Murano.  Perhaps thy father will befriend us.”

“No, no; without their consent it would be useless.  I think I shall not tell him—­it would be only a grief.”

“Because it meaneth much to thee?” Marco questioned, luminous and ungenerous.

She did not answer.