“To-morrow,” said Giustinian Giustiniani, as if in answer to his thoughts, “at dawn of day, there will be Mass in the capello Giustiniani on Sant’ Elena; and later we must visit the shrines of San Nicolo and San Lorenzo.  For in the Church also we have had our part.  A Giustinian was first Patriarch of Venice; a saint was father to our else broken line—­we have had our share in Church and State, and it behooves a member of the Consiglio to remember the honors of his house.”

He stood for a moment looking up at the shield on which were blazoned the arms of the Giustiniani, as if he missed something that should have been there; then, slowly turning back to the central court, now flooded with sunshine, he began the ascent of the grand stairway which led to the banqueting hall.  The gleaming marble panels bore a fretwork of sculptured foliage with symbols entwined—­the mitre, the cross, the sword—­in richest Renaissance; but in all the decorations of this lordly palace, of the most ancient of the Venetians, not once did the mighty Lion of St. Mark appear.

When they had reached the landing opening into the banquet hall the Senator, turning in the direction of his own apartments, released his son with a motion of his hand toward the great, splendid chamber from which issued ripples of girlish laughter; and Marcantonio stood for a few moments under the arches which opened into it, looking on unobserved, for here it seemed that the fete was already reigning.

The noble maidens who attended the Lady Laura, fresh and charming, were knotting loops of ribbon in pendant garlands or grouping flowers in great vases between the columns which crossed the chamber from end to end—­darting up the stairway to the gallery to alter a festoon in garland or brocade.  Sallies of laughter, snatches of song, and pelting of flowers, like a May-day frolic, made the work long in the doing, but full of grace; and now and again, as if any purpose were wearying for such light-hearted maidens, they dropped their garlands and glided over the polished floor, twining and untwining their arms—­a reflex in active life, and not less radiant, of the nymphs of Bassano on the painted ceiling, between those wonderful, gilded arabesques of Sansovino.

There was a little shriek of discomfiture as they suddenly perceived the young lord of the day, but the Contessa Beata Tagliapietra came saucily toward him as he was escaping.

“The Lady Laura hath charged me to ask the Signor Marcantonio whether the garlands be disposed according to his liking.”

She swept him a mocking reverence, so full of grace and coquetry that the maidens all flocked back from their hiding-places to see how the young signor would receive it.

“I know not which pleaseth me best,” he answered lightly; “the grace of the garlands, or the grace of the dance, or the grace of the damigelle who have so wrought for the beauty of this fete.  Nay, I may not enter, for the Lady Laura will await my coming.”