“My father,” answered the maiden proudly, for he had drawn away from her, “there is no stealing of that which I would gladly yield him, if it were thy pleasure and that of the Ca’ Giustiniani!  And there would have been no secret; but I—­to spare thee pain of knowing that I suffered—­I would not let him come to plead with thee.”

“Why shouldst thou suffer?”

“It is hard to lose thy love when only I told thee not because I would spare thee pain!  Father—­I have only thee!” Her courage broke in a quick sob.

“Nay, then—­nay, then,” he faltered softly, stroking her bowed head; “he is no man to love, if he would let thee suffer; he should take thee—­before them all—­if he would be worthy——­”

The low, intense, interrupted words were a brave surrender.

“Ay, my father, it is like Marco to hear thee speak!”

“Then let him come and make thee Lady of the Giustiniani, like a true knight!” exclaimed the old man fiercely.

“Ay, father, so would he; but I have told him that thou and I are not less proud than those of his own house, and without their consent it may not be.”

“Nay, I care not for their house—­only for thy happiness; he shall wed thee, and my home is thine; I have enough for thee and him; he shall not make thee suffer.”

They were close together now, father and daughter—­a beautiful group in the yellow lamplight against the dark background that surrounded them like an impassible fate; her face was a study of happiness, tenderness, suffering, and strength; her father wrapped her close in his protecting arms, and thus she could bear everything.  They were silent for a while:  he trying to accept the revelation in its strangeness, she planning how she should make him understand.

“I am glad thou knowest it, dear father,” she said at length, very softly.  “I have thy love—­I can bear everything.”

“Nay, thou shalt have nothing to bear!  Thou shalt be Lady of the Giustiniani—­what means the portrait else?”

“It is like Marco again!” she cried, with a little pleased laugh.  “He said—­because I would make him no promise until all consented—­that he would take me thus before all the world, and that should make them consent.”

“Nay, let him come out from his house and take thee!  I also, of the people, bear an ancient name, and I have kept it honorable.  Pietro, the earliest master of our beautiful art, was thine ancestor.  The Giustinian stoops not in taking thee.”

“He is noble enough to be thy son, my father—­and chivalrous as thou—­but we are too noble to let him do aught unbefitting his noble house; for thou knowest the Giustiniani are like princes in Venice, and Marco is their only son.  He oweth duty to the Republic; and this day, in the Ducal Palace, hath he sworn his oath of allegiance.”

“First should it have been to thee!”

“Ay, first it was to me,” she answered serenely; “he would not have it otherwise; it is only my promise that is lacking.  This will I not give until the Giustiniani make me welcome, or there would be no happiness for Marco.  He shall not lose, in loving me.  The Signor Giustinian Giustiniani is so stern—­and one of the Chiefs—­I would not vex him and bring down the displeasure of the Ten; I would bring my Marco happiness—­not pain.”