“Oh, the courage of young hearts!” the old man exclaimed with a thrill of pride and amazement.  “Never had Giustinian a prouder bride.  And already thou hast won my heart for this lover of thine, who hath hope of taking thee from thy old father, yet stays at thy bidding.”

“He hath said that he would be here ere the fete began,” she answered timidly, “since already, through the portrait, thou must know the truth; and it would seem unknightly, or as if he feared thy displeasure, if he came not this day to pay thee his duty.  Father, methinks there is already a stir below——­”

“Thou shouldst make thyself brave!” her father exclaimed, with a quick, anxious glance at her simple home toilette.  “He will pass from thee to many noble ladies in the palazzo Giustiniani—­all in bravery of festival.”

“Nay, my father, so he found me; I would not hold him by devices, of which I know naught.  There will be much to suffer, and these trifles cannot enter into anything so deep and real.  I would rather he should change to-day—­if he could be light enough to change.  Besides,” she faltered, with a quick, charming blush, “I think it is already his step without; and to-night he will have so few moments to spare me—­Marco!”

Coming forward through the shadow of the doorway, the young noble—­deferent, masterful, unrenouncing—­was a suitor not easily to be baffled by any claims of Venice.

Girolamo turned quickly to his child, then looked away, for her face made a radiance in the room; he, her father, who had loved her through all the days of her maiden life with a great tenderness, had never known the fullness of her beauty until now; the soft folds of the simple robe flowing away from her into the surrounding shadow left the pure young charm of her head and face in luminous relief, as the brilliant young noble, in embroidered velvet and silken hose and jeweled clasps—­a type of sumptuous modern day Venice—­stepped forward into the little circle of light, bowing before her with courtly deference.

The vision of those youthful faces made it easy to forget the outward contrast—­a mere accident of birth.

Girolamo Magagnati had promised himself that he would be a true knight to his beloved child; he would question and prove this bold young noble who claimed, with such presumption, so great a prize—­not humbly suing, as he should have done; he would make him tremble and wait; he should learn that his daughter was not to be the more easily won because she was of the people!  Then, with the fullness of his vow upon him, and with a heart loving indeed, but brave as proud, he had raised his eyes and beheld a vision in which neither nobles nor people held part—­only a maiden, glorified by her love and trust; and a lover—­prince or peasant it mattered not—­for on his face it was luminously written that in all the world there was for him none other than she.  And the vision, like an apprehension of Truth—­rare and very beautiful—­conquered Girolamo, because he was strong enough to yield.