“But, Marco mio, thou doest him injustice; he is most interesting; he was telling about the frescoes of the Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel; he knoweth them well, yet I think he liketh them little.”

“It matters not,” said Marcantonio, a little disdainfully; “thou hast already seen them; thou canst have thine own opinion of their merit.”

“But to hear all the allegories explained and all the illusions to the history of our Holy Church is most interesting,” Marina pursued calmly; “for the dear padre of San Donate had but little instruction; I must know about all these things for baby’s sake—­he is growing so fast.”

“He is not going to be an artist,” his father answered shortly; “and if he were, we could find a better person to instruct him than a Spanish member of the Jesuit College.”

“Marco!” exclaimed his wife, with a long note of surprise; “is not our Holy Church one? and are not her sons scattered over the whole world?  I knew not he displeased thee,” she continued, in a changed tone, after a little pause.  “Of course I will not see him again.  But is it Don Fernanzo Lillo himself, or—­or—­Marco—­it cannot be the order!  Thou canst not be so narrow!”

“At this time, Marina, with matters thus between Venice and Rome, I do not care to entertain any of their order or any foreign priests in our home; they do not place things in the proper light, and we have always held a special position of loyalty toward Venice.  When she is in difficulties all the Ca’ Giustiniani should seem to remember it; it could make no other difference.”

“I do not understand,” she answered, looking at him with perplexed brows.

“Why shouldst thou!” he exclaimed, glad to change a distasteful topic; “such weariness is not needful for thee.  I will not bring the worries of the Council Chamber into thy boudoir.”

“Nay, Marco, it would please me,” she answered eagerly, rising instantly from her languid attitude to come and stand over him, laying one hand on his shoulder, half in caress and half in command.  “Thy father tells these matters to the Lady Laura; and for baby’s sake I should understand these troubles which touch our Republic.  He will ask me questions very soon.”

“Well, then,” he consented ungraciously, “what is it thou wouldst ask?”

She laughed at his reluctance, pressing her hand with a firmer and yet more loving touch on his shoulder.  “Because I am a Giustinian,” she began, with a plea which invariably won him, “tell me about this question of Vicenza which occupies them all so much—­I could not understand.  Who is this Abbott of Nervessa?”

At her first words he had folded her caressing hand in his, but he dropped it in immediate displeasure and walked quickly away from her, speaking indignantly.  “They talked of this in thy presence?”

“They said an abbe was imprisoned in the Piombi; they said it was against the law to imprison ecclesiastics except by the authority of the Pope.  Oh, Marco mio, I am afraid he will be very angry!”