But Giustinian Giustiniani had no words, for the case was hopeless—­only a face of gloom, and much that was imperative to keep him in the Council Chamber.

For these few blissful days the lovers had heaven to themselves, floating about at twilight on the shores of the Lido, where there were none to trouble the clear serenity of their joy by the chilling breath of criticism.  “That white rose which I brought thee was in sign of my mother’s favor,” Marcantonio reminded Marina more than once; “and for the rest—­all will be well; and for a little, we can wait.”

Ah, yes, they could wait—­in such a smiling world, under a sky so exquisite, gliding over the opal of the still lagoons at twilight.

But old Girolamo, sure now of the decree which should number his daughter among the patricians of this Republic where, through long generations, his family had made their boast that they represented the people, was in a feverish mood—­grave, elated, sad by turns, unwilling to confess to the loneliness which was beginning to gnaw at his heart, for Marina was his life; he did not think he could live without her; he knew he could not live and see her unhappy beside him; and he was old to learn the new, pathetic part he must play—­the waiting for death, quite alone in the old home.

And those others,—­in the sumptuous palace on the Canal Grande,—­would they prize the treasure which was the very light of his life, that he should break his heart to yield her up?

He could have cried aloud in his anguish, as he sat waiting for the happy plash of the returning gondola, the princely gondola of the Ca’ Giustiniani, bringing those two before whom life was opening in a golden vista; but as the slow ripples breaking over the water brought them nearer, his heart girded itself again with all his chivalrous strength, lest he should dim the glad light in his beloved one’s eyes—­lest he should seem ungenerous to the brave young knight who had dared the displeasure of his house and of the Republic for the love he bore his daughter.

And the shadows in that other home, the palazzo on the Canal Grande, in these days of waiting, were colder, hasher,—­born of selfishness rather than love, of disappointed ambition perhaps,—­but they were very real shadows nevertheless, obscuring the clear-cut traditions of centuries, out of which one should struggle through increase of pride, the other through the broadening of a more generous love.

Meanwhile the gondola floated in light—­between shadow and shadow—­so slight is the realization of the throes by which joy is sometimes born; and the pathos of the change which made their gladness possible was for the two young people still an unrecognized note.

But waiting was now over; more positive steps must be taken.  Two Secretaries had been sent from the Senate to bring the news of the filing of the decree.

“Madre mia!” cried Marcantonio eagerly, when they were gone; “it has come even before our hope!”