Marietta had got into the gondola without so much as glancing across the canal to see whether Zorzi were standing there to see them push off, as he often did when she and her father went out together.  If he were there, she meant to show him that she could be more indifferent than he; if he were not, she would show herself that she did not care enough even to look for him.  But when the gondola was out of sight of the house she wished she knew whether he had looked out or not.

Her father had told her that they were going to dine with the Procurator Foscarini and his wife.  The pair had one daughter, of Marietta’s age, and she was a cripple from birth.  Marietta was fond of her, and it was a relief to get away from Murano, even for half a day.  The visit explained well enough why her father had desired her to put on her best gown and most valuable lace.  She really had not the slightest idea that anything more important was on foot.

Beroviero looked at her in silence as they sped along with the gently rocking motion of the gondola, which is not exactly like any other movement in the world.  He had already noticed that she was paler than usual, but the extraordinary whiteness of her skin made her pallor becoming to her, and it was set off by the colour of her hair, as ivory by rough gold.  He wondered whether she had guessed whither he was taking her.

“It is a long time since we were in Saint Mark’s together,” he said at last.

“It must be more than a year,” answered Marietta.  “We pass it often, but we hardly ever go in.”

“It is early,” observed Beroviero, speaking as indifferently as he could.  “When we left home it lacked an hour and a half of noon by the dial.  Shall we go into the church for a while?”

“If you like,” replied Marietta mechanically.

Nothing made much difference that morning, but she knew that the high mass would be over and that the church would be quiet and cool.  It was not at that time the cathedral of Venice, though it had always been the church in which the doges worshipped in state.

They landed at the low steps in the Rio del Palazzo, and the servant held out his bent elbow for Marietta to steady herself, though he knew that she would not touch it, for she was light and sure-footed as a fawn; but Beroviero leaned heavily on his man’s arm.  They came round the Patriarch’s palace into the open square, whence the crowd had nearly all disappeared, dispersing in different directions.  Just as they were within sight of the great doors of the church, Beroviero saw a very tall man in a purple silk mantle going in alone.  It was Contarini, and Beroviero drew a little sigh of relief.  The intended bridegroom was punctual, but Beroviero thought that he might have shown such anxiety to see his bride as should have brought him to the door a few minutes before the time.

Marietta had drawn her veil across her face, leaving only her eyes uncovered, according to custom.