To-day the young patrician almost resented this persistent marshaling of the shades of his ancestors, though at heart he was proud of them, and the prestige and luxury of his surroundings suited him well; but he chafed under his father’s scrutiny, which, it seemed to him, unveiled the differences of their temperaments to an almost indecorous degree.  The thought of Marina was tingling in his pulses, but he would not yield it up until the propitious moment came; and the strong consciousness of this sweet new queenship made the constant assertion of the sovereignty of Venice not easy to endure.  But the remembrance of his vow of allegiance, just rendered before the Senate, returned to him rather as the public investiture of his rights as a man than as a claim of self-surrender; and he vowed to himself to use that right, in all possible conflict between himself and the Republic, in questions personal and dear; for the pleasant freedom of his life thus far had left him less in awe of the senatorial majesty than Giustinian Giustiniani would have deemed possible.  But how could he hope to win his father’s consent to any unpatrician alliance!

He passed the elder Giustinian hastily and paused beyond the next group of armor—­battered breastplates, casques, and shields of the twelfth century—­but his thoughts were elsewhere.

“These,” said the Senator, inexorably recalling him, “were of the famous siege of Lepanto, where, but for the favor of the Holy Father, our house had been extinct.”

The young fellow’s soul stirred within him, for he knew the story well.  How was it possible for a Giustinian to pause before this great stand of antique trophies of prowess and not call to mind visions of heroism and suffering in which the Giustiniani of those days—­every one who belonged to Venice—­had yielded up his life in this great struggle with the Turks!

Yes, every one who belonged to Venice.  For the young Nicolo, the last survivor of their ancient name, was already set apart from the world by his priestly vows, amid the quiet groves of the island of San Nicolo.  It was a pretty romance—­all those noble councillors, trembling from fear of the extinction of this most ancient and princely house, framing humble petitions to the Holy Father; the youthful monk, leaving the tranquil solitude of his island sanctuary, unfrocked with honor by a Pope’s decree, to don the crimson robe of senator and wed the daughter of the Doge!  And later, when sons and daughters many had risen up to call them blessed, the old haunting charm of the convent reasserting itself, the return of the Giustinian—­this solitary link between the long lines of his noble house, before and after—­to his lonely cell on San Nicolo; the retirement of the Lady Anna from the sweet motherhood of her home to reign as Lady Abbess in the convent of Sant’ Elena; the nimbus of sainthood for the pair when their quiet days were closed—­it was a pretty story, leading easily to thoughts of Marina.