“Ay, it is all one—­so that she wear not out the patience of Marcantonio by her importunities.  The Senate will stand firm on the issue, and not one of the Ca’ Giustiniani shall flinch.”

“Is there no possible doubt of the ending?” the Lady Laura questioned, after a little troubled silence.  Her heart was very sore for Marina, who slept but little, and was constantly fasting.

“Only of that which lieth between; the end is triumph for Venice,” Giustinian declared.  “Tell that to Marina, and calm her fears.  Also, let it not be known that she is so weak in courage; it would be held against Marcantonio, to whom the suspicion of being wife-ridden would do an infinite injustice.  And bid Marcantonio himself tell her of the vote that hath passed the Senate, without dissent of a single voice, for letters to be sent to the imperious Paul to make an end of his demands, declaring that Venice recognizeth for the temporal government of her states no superior, save God alone.”

Meanwhile in Rome, to the Ambassador Agostino Nani, Paul had already superbly made answer, “We are above all men, and God hath given us power over all men; we can depose kings and do yet more than that.  Especially our power is ‘quae tendunt ad finem supranaturalem.’ (Over those things which tend to a supernatural end.)”

All thoughts of festivity in the City of the Sea were over; the strength of her patricians—­men and women—­was concentrated on this momentous quarrel with the Holy See, which they would indeed have put off were it possible, but which, having come upon them, they would bear with conquering pride.  All through those dark December days the pressure tightened; there were mutterings of the coming storm, against which the rulers of Venice were planning defense; there was an oppression, like a sense of mental sirocco, in the air—­a vague terror of the unknown among the people, gathering like the blighting breath which precedes some fierce tornado—­while in the palace of San Marco, the Doge, Marino Grimani, Chief of the Republic in revolt against the Holy See, lay dying!

The Lady Marina Giustiniani had forgotten how to smile.  When her little one lifted his rosy baby face to hers she smothered him in caresses, that he might not see her tears; and her husband failed to note the change, for the Senate sat in unbroken session and the permitted absences from the Council Chambers of the Republic barely sufficed for sleep.  Daily in the oratory of her palace Mass was said, and Marina passed long hours there on her knees alone, tracing the coming horror to its most dread issue, trying to understand it wholly, that she might pray with all her soul against it—­this Curse which was to blight the lives of all she loved, and of which her dearest seemed to feel no dread!  She scarcely ate nor slept—­watching, for the morning, when a new intercession for mercy should rise from the oratory in her palace; waiting for the evening, when she might go with her maidens to vespers in San Marco.  And still the days darkened in threats—­had God forgotten to be gracious?