She came close to him and folded his hand caressingly.  “The Contessa Beata Tagliapietra hath a wonderful charm; and there is the Lady Agnesina Contarini—­a face for a Titian!”

“Mother!  I pray thee——­” Marcantonio interrupted.

“Nay, Marco—­to-day it is fitting; for thy wedding should follow soon upon this fete.  Thou art no longer a boy, and Venice looks to us to help thee choose a fitting bride; for there is none other of this generation of thy name, and thou,—­I will not hide it from thee since thou needest heartening,—­thou wilt be a fortunate wooer with these maidens, or—­or elsewhere.  But my little Beata is charming-----”

“Mother,” said Marcantonio, flushing like a boy, yet drawing himself up proudly, “I have already crowned her who shall be my bride with pearls; and for her face—­thou hast named it exquisite.”  Then, unbending, he threw his arms around her and kissed her on the forehead.

The Lady Laura stood as if petrified.

“I know her not,” she said, when she could speak.  “Name her to me.”  Her voice was hard and strained.

“Do not speak so, madre mia!  Love her—­she is so charming!  And she will not come to me unless thou love her too.”

“How, then—­if she is thy bride?” The words seemed to choke her.

“Nay, but my chosen bride—­holding my vows with my heart; yet, unless thou plead with me for my happiness she will not wed me—­she is so proud.”

“Name her,” the Lady Laura repeated, unbending slightly.

“Marina Magagnati.”

She stood listening, as if more were to follow, then she shook her head.  “I know not the name, unless—­but it is not possible!  She is not of Venice, then?”

“A Venetian of the Venetians, my mother, with the love of Venice in her soul—­but not——­”

“Marcantonio, explain thine enigma!  How should there be a name of all our nobles unknown to me?”

“There are nobles of the ‘Libro d’Oro,’ my mother, and—­nobles of the people, and she is of these.”

“How canst thou name a mesalliance to me—­Marcantonio Giustiniani, Nobile di Consiglio—­on this day, when thou hast given thy vows to Venice!  Thou dost forget the traditions of thine house.”

“Nay, mother; Venice and the Ca’ Giustiniani I am not likely to forget,” he answered, with sudden bitterness.  “One thing—­quite other—­am I much more likely to forget; but for this have I sworn, that which my heart teaches me for noble will I do, and she whom I love will I wed—­or none other.”

“Marco!” the word seemed a desperate appeal.

“That do I swear upon this sword which my father hath given me to prove my knighthood—­’to enrich,’ he hath said, ‘the records of our house.’  And thou wilt help me, my mother, for I love thee!” His voice had grown tender and pleading again.

“I also love thee, Marco,” she answered more gently, for none could resist his voice when this mood was upon him; “but I may not help thee to undo thyself and forget the honor of thine house.”