While the little Zuane was failing, Marcantonio, seeing Marina but seldom, solaced himself in preparing a royal gift to offer to his mother on the occasion of his own birthday fête. The idea had come to him that night after the Veronese had touched his own faulty sketch into such rounded life; besides, he had thought but one beautiful thought since he had, as it were, been unconsciously brought to confession by that scene in the studio. And Paolo Cagliari had been most kind in accepting his commission with an enthusiasm which promised wonderful results. Great as was his fame in those days,—and the Veronese never lived beyond his fame,—still, as in his earlier years, he was eager for any new method of proving the genius in which his own faith was as unbounded as his capacity to achieve was vigorous and tireless. And the young noble's unique fancy for a superb goblet of crystalda Beroviero, with a miniature of Marina of Murano enlaced in exquisite gold borders and set round with costly pearls—a trifle fit to offer to a princess—not only pleased the artist's well-known taste for luxury, but seemed to him an object worthy of his skill. In the kindness of his heart he would make the lovely face so winning that the great lady should yield to the prayer that had prompted the gift.
Among all the elaborate gift-pieces that had come from the workshops of Murano, but one had as yet approached this, and it had been sent with the homage of the Senate, by a retiring ambassador of "His Most Christian Majesty," to the Queen of France, and it bore, from Titian's hand, the portrait of her royal husband. This goblet, then, must surpass that one in magnificence, for it was the Veronese's opportunity; and in his soul, genial as it was, some sense of rivalry, born of Titian's assumption of the highest place in Venetian art, would last forever, in spite of the great master's manifest affection. The suggestion of the pearls—an added touch—was indeed due to Paolo Cagliari's over-weening sumptuousness, and the eager young lover was scarcely more anxious for the completion of this gem, upon which his hope depended, than was the great artist who already had all Venice at his feet.
"I shall need no sitting," the Veronese had said, when they were planning for the work. "My picture is nearly completed, and it will suffice. Nay, ask her not, my Marco; she is a devote—she will not understand."
Marcantonio flushed like a boy. He knew it would be difficult to obtain her consent, and for that very reason he must win it, for he was a true knight.
"How shall I win my lady's favor," he cried hotly, "if I peril it by lack of chivalry! There is no prouder maiden among the donne nobile on the Canal Grande."
"Altro! Altro!" said the master quietly. "She also shall look down from the balconies in the palazzo Giustiniani."
But when the young patrician told her glowingly of his wish to give his mother, on his great day, the most beautiful gift in all the world, it was hard to make her yield.
"It is not fitting," she answered quite simply.
"Yes, yes, Marina—since I love thee!"
"Ah, no; it is only sad." Her eyes filled with tears and she moved away, so that he could not touch her hand.
"Trust me, Marina! The Veronese knows the world, and he says it is well. It is this that shall win the consent of my mother, and she will conquer my father. And in the Gran' Consiglio——"
He turned his eyes suddenly away from Marina lest she should trace the faintest flicker of a doubt within them, as the vision rose before him of that imperious body, so relentless in its decrees, so tenacious in its traditions, so positive in its autocracy; but the threatened invincibility of this force only nerved him to a resistance as invincible, and he turned back to her with a flashing face, almost before she had noticed the interruption.
"There also—in the Consiglio—it shall be arranged, and all will be well."
And where two were ready for the end that should be gained the pleading was not over-long, though the thought was very strange for this simple maiden of Murano; so the precious painting was finished and in the hands of the decorators. And meanwhile, during those days when Marina had been watching the flickering of the little Zuane's pale flame of life and there had been no spare moments for Marcantonio, he had tried to absorb himself, as far as possible, in the preparation of this gift—since she would not let him go to her—and he had come to regard it as the symbol of success; for failure was never for an instant contemplated in his vision of the future. There were pearls to be selected, one by one, in visits innumerable to the Fondaco dei Turchi, where the finest of such treasures were not secured at a first asking, and in these his mother was a connoisseur; but there were many more anxious visits to Murano, to be assured that no step in the fashioning of his gift was endangering its perfection.
But even for the most impatient, time may not tarry indefinitely, and the lagging moments had at last brought round that festa of San Marco which meant so much for Venice, with its splendid pageants for the Church, its festivities for the people, its fluttering of doves in the Piazza, and of timid, eager maiden hearts, waiting in a sort of shy assurance for that earliest Venetian love-token, theboccolo—the rosebud which breathed the secret of many a young Venetian lover to hisinamorataunder those April skies, on the festa of this patron saint of Venice.
And the next morning the stately lady of the Giustiniani stood quite alone on the balcony of the great palace at the bend of the Canal Grande, leaning upon her gold-embroidered cushions to watch the gondola that was just landing at the step of the Piazzetta; the restless movements of her tapering jeweled fingers were the only sign of an emotion she rarely betrayed, though doubtless, under the faultless dignity of her bearing, there were often currents of feeling and thwartings hard to be endured.
She was thinking of her boy with a great and sudden tenderness, now that the moment had come in which she would be less to him and the world of men must be more, as from the distance she saw the gondola touch the landing and watched him until he passed out of sight, after pausing with his father for a moment before the great columns of San Marco and San Teodoro, looking up perhaps with a keener sense of the dread scenes they had witnessed than had ever before possessed him, though the sunshine streamed brilliantly over the water and life seemed full of promise for this only son of the Ca' Giustiniani, on his way to take the oath of "Silence and Allegiance to the Republic," as a "Nobile di Gran' Consiglio."
Marcantonio had entered the gondola gaily, with a full, pleasurable sense of the beauty of life, and well content with that portion which had fallen to his lot; for he was easily affected, and the air of the palace was full of the excitement of his fête. The only forebodings that shadowed his sunshine were connected with Marina and the gift which he should offer to his mother upon his return from the Ducal Palace. But the day was one to banish every hint of failure, making him more conscious of his power than he had ever been before, and he felt himself floating toward attainment—whatever the difficulties might be. But with his first step upon the Piazzetta he forgot the glory of the sunshine flashing over the blue waters, and a sudden sense of fate possessed him, as his father made an almost imperceptible pause in his grave progress toward the Ducal Palace, and with the slightest possible movement of his hand seemed to direct his son's attention to the great granite columns which bore the emblems of the patron saints of Venice.
A hundred times, in crossing the Piazzetta, Marcantonio had been vaguely aware of them as appropriate emblems of barbaric force and splendor and allegoric Christian allegiance; but suddenly they stood to him for historic records—the echoes of dread deeds avenged there rolled forth from the space between the columns, and the jeweled eyes of the terrible winged Lion flashed defiance upon any who questioned, in the remotest way, the will or the act of the Republic. He glanced toward the elder man, some deprecatory comment rising to his lips as he strove to dissipate the symbolic mood which was surely possessing him, for he felt himself uncomfortably conscious of the meaning wrought into the very stones about him, and to-day this over-mastering assertion of Venice—always Venice dominant—was oppressive.
But his father, apparently unaware of Marcantonio's turbulent sensations, wore his usual reserved and dignified mien; even the motion he had seemed to make before the columns in the Piazzetta was probably only due to Marcantonio's imagination, and the young fellow's light rejoinder passed unuttered, intensifying his discomfort. He realized that he was not searching for this symbolism with a poet's appreciation, nor as an archaeologist delighting in curios, but as a son of the Republic—to gather her history and her purpose, to make himself one with her, to put himself under her yoke—and in his heart he rebelled.
Yet it was he, this time, who paused, undeniably, before the great window on the Piazzetta. The sun streamed in broad flashes of light over the soft rose-tinted walls of the palazzo and over the splendid balcony from which the Doge was wont to view the processions and fêtes of the Republic; the richly sculptured decorations detached themselves at once in allegory, the figures all leading up to Venice enthroned, holding out to the world her proud motto, "Fortis, justa, trono furias, mare sub pede pono." (Strong, just, I put the furies beneath my throne and the sea beneath my foot.) He walked on under a spell, feeling that the coils were tightening around him; he was a noble, but not free; yet he would not have surrendered his opportunities for the freer life of the people who had no part in the Consiglio.
He quickened his pace that the moment of irresolution might be the sooner over.
"Wait!" his father commanded, as Marcantonio would have entered the palace gate; "haste ill befits thy grave and dignified purpose. Before thou enterest the Consiglio I would have thee reverently mark how, at the palace gate, Justice sits enthroned on high, between the Lions of St. Mark, while Courage, Prudence, Hope, and Charity wait upon her."
"And below," answered Marcantonio, because he could think of nothing else to say, and because he knew every angle and carving of the palace from the aesthetic point of view better than his father did; "below is the Doge Foscari, kneeling very reverently to our noble Lion."
His father slowly scanned him with his inscrutable gaze, but answered nothing, and they passed under the magnificent Porta della Carta quite silently. Under the deep shadow of the gateway the business of the Ducal Palace was already progressing. Secretaries at their desks were preparing papers for discussion, while their assistants came and went with messages from the various departments of the great body of workers within the palace; they were too absorbed to look up as this Chief of the Ten passed them, so oblivious were they of anything but their duty that the stir about them left them serene and undisturbed, not even penetrating the realm of their consciousness.
"There is no more learned nor devoted body of scribes in the world," said Giustinian, with pride; "they have not a thought beyond their papers, and most wonderfully do they sift and prepare them for the Council, working often far into the night."
"It is machinery, not life!" Marcantonio exclaimed, hastening beyond the portal.
The great courtyard, under the wonderful blue of the sky, was aglow with color; the palace façades, broken into irregular carvings, seemed to hold the sunshine in their creamy surfaces; the superb wells of green bronze, magnificently wrought and dimmed as yet by little weather-staining, offered a treasury of luminous points. Here, in the early morning, the women of the neighborhood gathered with their water-jars, but now the court was filled with those who had business in the Ducal Palace—red-robed senators and members of the Consiglio talking in knots; a councillor in his violet gown, a group of merchant-princes in black robes, enriched with costly furs and relieved by massive gold chains, absorbed in discussion of some practical details for the better ordering of theFondachi, those storehouses and marts for foreign trade peculiar to Venice; some grave attorney, more soberly arrayed, making haste toward the gloom of the secretary's corner; a sprinkling of friars on ecclesiastical business, of gondoliers in the varied liveries of the senators waiting their masters' call; here and there a figure less in keeping with the magnificence around him, too full of his trouble to be abashed, going to ask for justice at the Doge's feet—the heart of Venice was pulsing in the court, and under the arches came the gleam and shimmer of the sea. Up and down the splendid stairway that opened immediately from the Porta della Carta the Venetians came and went—nobles old and young; the people, bringing wrongs to be adjusted, or favors to be granted, or some secret message for the terribleBocca di Leone; the people, rich and poor, in continuous tread upon this Giant Stairway, guarded by the gods of war and of the sea; the winged Lion enthroned above, just over the landing where the elected noble dons the rank ofSerenissimo—this kaleidoscopic epitome of the life of the Republic was bewildering.
"How was it possible that all these people could take part in it without emotion?" the young patrician asked himself, forgetting that in this familiar scene the emotion only was new for him.
At the head of the landing on the Giant Stairway the Senator arrested his son with a gesture of command. "Welcome," he said, "to the Consiglio, Marcantonio Giustiniani. Thou wilt not forget that thou comest of a house which has held honors in Church and State. May this day be memorable for Venice and for thee!"
The influences of their surroundings were strong upon them both; but the young fellow, in his bounding life, craved something more than this formal induction into the official life of his sumptuous state—he longed to feel the human throb beneath it, that the sense of its weight might be lifted; but he could not find his voice until they had passed through the loggia and reached the chambers of theAvvogadori, where sat the keepers of the Golden Book.
He stretched out his hand wistfully and touched the elder man.
"Father!" he cried, in a voice not well controlled. And again, more steadily, though no answer came, "Father, I will not forget!"
The finding of his name among the birth records of the nobles of Venice, the registration witnessed by the three solemn Avvogadori,—those officers of the law whose rulings in their department were inexorable,—the act of confirmation before the Imperial Senate, whither, in grave procession, they immediately fared, preceded by the sacred "Libro d'Oro," upon which the oath of allegiance was sworn with bended knee—the ceremony was soon over, and Marcantonio stood enrolled among the ruling body of the great Republic.
As they returned through the splendid halls of the palace, Giustinian paused frequently to exchange a greeting with some old senator who came forward to welcome the young noble to the grave circle of rulers, and they were followed with glances of interest as they passed through the Piazza. For it was whispered in theBrogliothat there were reasons—valid and patriotic, as were all the arguments of Venice—for the fact that no member of that ancient and loyal house had worn the highest honor of the state. "The Ca' Giustiniani was too old, too wealthy, too influential—too much a part of Venice itself."
"Like the Orseoli!" said Morosini Morosini, who was a friend of the Giustiniani, and who, like many another strong-brained Venetian, knew the taste of unsatisfied longings, yet kept a brave heart for the records of the Republic. And as he spoke there came to some of them who knew their annals well a stinging memory of the tale—which was no legend—of that pathetic group in their island sanctuary—the brothers who were left, after the death of Otto, the exiled Doge, and of Orso, the noble bishop-prince, all of the house of Orseoli, who, with their abbess-sister Felicia, were wounded to the heart because for the crime of too great love and service the jealous and unrequiting Senate had banished them forever from the Venice so loyally served—had decreed the extinction of a family to whom, as Doge and Patriarch, the Republic owed the wisest and most self-sacrificing of her rulers!
"Nay," said another speaker quickly, a friend to Morosini the historian—for the Broglio had been known to have a voice as well as ears, and the subject was a dangerous one, not honorable to Venice—"Nay, there are no Orseoli. But it is for honor to the Giustiniani that none hath been chosen for the Serenissimo. He is strong, grave, and very silent; but most wise in council, most prudent in resource. He is needed among theSavii."
"And the coronation oath hath grown over straight since the days of the Michieli," responded Morosini. "The Giustinian is not a man for ourpromissionewhich, verily, fitteth ill with the dignity of our Prince—a man of spirit may well find it hard to assume the beretta under such restrictions!"
With the nonchalance that concealed a skill all Venetian the gondoliers of the Giustiniani guided them gracefully through the floating craft moored to the stakes which rose in sheafs before their palace, announcing the colors of their noble house. Barges bearing flowers and decorations for the fête, fruits and game, were unloading on the broad marble steps, and through the wrought open-work of the splendid gates a scene of activity was disclosed in the nearer court which served as an office for the various departments of the household; while the house-master had come down the steps from his cozy lodge beside the entrance, and stood dispensing orders to a group of eager domestics.
In the deep shadow of the entrance-court the open one, through which the light streamed radiantly, seemed far distant, and when the great bell sent clanging echoes from court to court, gondoliers in undress liveries, who were lazily lounging and chatting, sprang to a show of activity over all those finishing touches of polish and nicety which had been achieved long before; and the lithe figures coming and going, throwing themselves into graceful attitudes over their semblance of labor, exchanging joyous sallies in anticipation of the evening's revelry, awoke a contagious merriment. Marcantonio rallied from the heaviness of the morning and felt young again, as he yielded to their influence and wandered among them, tossing compliments and repartees with Venetian freedom.
In the midst of this harmless trifling the voice of GiustinianGiustiniani sounded sternly.
"Marcantonio, these ancient arms have been burnished in honor of this day; I have a moment to remind thee of their history—if thou hast forgotten."
He was calling from across the open court, where the sunshine seemed suddenly less, and Marcantonio hastened to respond.
The seneschal called for lights, for the workmanship of these heirlooms was too fine to be appreciated in the gloom which pervaded the far inner court; two or three iron lanterns were brought and hung up, and link-boys flashed flaring torches upon the pieces on the wall near which their master stood.
"Surely thou dost recall this breastplate of the General Taddeo Giustiniani, who forced the Austrians to surrender Trieste, when Venice laid siege to the city in 1369? It was wrought in the East, no doubt, and the inlaying is of gold and precious; but not for this do we keep it chained. It is a priceless jewel in the history of our house, for Trieste meant much for Venice."
He raised the heavy chain that fastened it, and the links fell, clanging, against the stones of the wall; for this hall, which served as an armory, was like a prison in its construction,—as strong and as forbidding,—and here, among the ancestral relics, were kept the arms which every nobleman, by Venetian law, was required to hold in readiness to equip his household against uprisings of the populace, who were, by this same law, debarred these means of self-defense.
At a sign from the Senator a young squire came forward, proudly bearing a sword with a jeweled hilt, in an intricately wrought scabbard. Giustinian drew it from its sheath, displaying a blade exquisitely damascened with acanthus foliage, as he turned to his son.
"This is especially thine own," he said, "in honor of this day—thy maiden sword. So far as the handiwork of Cellini may make it worthy of a son of our house, it hath been worthily chosen for thee. Yet, unless thou leavest it to those who come after thee, enriched by the name of a Giustinian who hath wrought of his best for Venice, it will be all unworthy of a place among these trophies."
The torch-bearers flashed their lights over it, and the squires of the household pressed forward to admire it, but Giustinian cut short the enthusiastic chorus of the young men-at-arms and Marcantonio's eager words of appreciation, crossing the sombre hall with stately steps; for to his mind this important day held many ceremonies yet unfulfilled, and the pomp with which he chose to surround them was not a circumstance to be dilated on.
"This," he said, as he touched a quaint dagger, "belonged to thine ancestor, Marco Giustiniani, Ambassador to the Scaglieri; there were other envoys of our name in other Italian provinces, in England and the Papal Court, for we have been great in statescraft as well as in war. But I wrong thee inseemingto think thou knowest not the history of thine house. Perhaps, in these latter days, a man may best distinguish himself in statesmanship, for the mind is a weapon not to be slighted—when it is builded with strength, sharpened with careful use, and so wielded"—his gaze fell full upon Marcantonio for a weighty moment—"so wielded that it hath no pliancy save at the will of its owner. For sometimes it chanceth"—again he paused for a moment—"that a mind hath more masters than one, and Venice brooks no rival."
His father had been pointing out one heirloom after another while he spoke, and the pauses which Marcantonio found irritating, because they seemed to indicate hidden meanings to be unraveled, might proceed only from his effort to carry several trains of thought at once; but it was a habit of the elder Giustinian which held not a less share in the education of his son because it was distasteful to him.
To-day the young patrician almost resented this persistent marshaling of the shades of his ancestors, though at heart he was proud of them, and the prestige and luxury of his surroundings suited him well; but he chafed under his father's scrutiny, which, it seemed to him, unveiled the differences of their temperaments to an almost indecorous degree. The thought of Marina was tingling in his pulses, but he would not yield it up until the propitious moment came; and the strong consciousness of this sweet new queenship made the constant assertion of the sovereignty of Venice not easy to endure. But the remembrance of his vow of allegiance, just rendered before the Senate, returned to him rather as the public investiture of his rights as a man than as a claim of self-surrender; and he vowed to himself to use that right, in all possible conflict between himself and the Republic, in questions personal and dear; for the pleasant freedom of his life thus far had left him less in awe of the senatorial majesty than Giustinian Giustiniani would have deemed possible. But how could he hope to win his father's consent to any unpatrician alliance!
He passed the elder Giustinian hastily and paused beyond the next group of armor—battered breastplates, casques, and shields of the twelfth century—but his thoughts were elsewhere.
"These," said the Senator, inexorably recalling him, "were of the famous siege of Lepanto, where, but for the favor of the Holy Father, our house had been extinct."
The young fellow's soul stirred within him, for he knew the story well. How was it possible for a Giustinian to pause before this great stand of antique trophies of prowess and not call to mind visions of heroism and suffering in which the Giustiniani of those days—every one who belonged to Venice—had yielded up his life in this great struggle with the Turks!
Yes, every one who belonged to Venice. For the young Nicolò, the last survivor of their ancient name, was already set apart from the world by his priestly vows, amid the quiet groves of the island of San Nicolò. It was a pretty romance—all those noble councillors, trembling from fear of the extinction of this most ancient and princely house, framing humble petitions to the Holy Father; the youthful monk, leaving the tranquil solitude of his island sanctuary, unfrocked with honor by a Pope's decree, to don the crimson robe of senator and wed the daughter of the Doge! And later, when sons and daughters many had risen up to call them blessed, the old haunting charm of the convent reasserting itself, the return of the Giustinian—this solitary link between the long lines of his noble house, before and after—to his lonely cell on San Nicolò; the retirement of the Lady Anna from the sweet motherhood of her home to reign as Lady Abbess in the convent of Sant' Elenà; the nimbus of sainthood for the pair when their quiet days were closed—it was a pretty story, leading easily to thoughts of Marina.
"To-morrow," said Giustinian Giustiniani, as if in answer to his thoughts, "at dawn of day, there will be Mass in the capello Giustiniani on Sant' Elenà; and later we must visit the shrines of San Nicolò and San Lorenzo. For in the Church also we have had our part. A Giustinian was first Patriarch of Venice; a saint was father to our else broken line—we have had our share in Church and State, and it behooves a member of the Consiglio to remember the honors of his house."
He stood for a moment looking up at the shield on which were blazoned the arms of the Giustiniani, as if he missed something that should have been there; then, slowly turning back to the central court, now flooded with sunshine, he began the ascent of the grand stairway which led to the banqueting hall. The gleaming marble panels bore a fretwork of sculptured foliage with symbols entwined—the mitre, the cross, the sword—in richest Renaissance; but in all the decorations of this lordly palace, of the most ancient of the Venetians, not once did the mighty Lion of St. Mark appear.
When they had reached the landing opening into the banquet hall the Senator, turning in the direction of his own apartments, released his son with a motion of his hand toward the great, splendid chamber from which issued ripples of girlish laughter; and Marcantonio stood for a few moments under the arches which opened into it, looking on unobserved, for here it seemed that the fête was already reigning.
The noble maidens who attended the Lady Laura, fresh and charming, were knotting loops of ribbon in pendant garlands or grouping flowers in great vases between the columns which crossed the chamber from end to end—darting up the stairway to the gallery to alter a festoon in garland or brocade. Sallies of laughter, snatches of song, and pelting of flowers, like a May-day frolic, made the work long in the doing, but full of grace; and now and again, as if any purpose were wearying for such light-hearted maidens, they dropped their garlands and glided over the polished floor, twining and untwining their arms—a reflex in active life, and not less radiant, of the nymphs of Bassano on the painted ceiling, between those wonderful, gilded arabesques of Sansovino.
There was a little shriek of discomfiture as they suddenly perceived the young lord of the day, but the Contessa Beata Tagliapietra came saucily toward him as he was escaping.
"The Lady Laura hath charged me to ask the Signor Marcantonio whether the garlands be disposed according to his liking."
She swept him a mocking reverence, so full of grace and coquetry that the maidens all flocked back from their hiding-places to see how the young signor would receive it.
"I know not which pleaseth me best," he answered lightly; "the grace of the garlands, or the grace of the dance, or the grace of thedamigellewho have so wrought for the beauty of this fête. Nay, I may not enter, for the Lady Laura will await my coming."
"Is this day then so full of gravity that one may not steal a moment to dance at one's own fête, Signer Consiglière?" she retorted, mockingly.
But the Lady Laura herself was coming toward them, with slow, stately steps, hiding her impatience—for the morning had seemed long.
At sight of her Marcantonio bent his knee with the knightly homage still in vogue, and gave his hand to conduct her to her boudoir.
"Signer Consiglière,"—she began, with a stately congratulation, when they were quite alone in her own boudoir; she had been planning, during the long morning, a speech that should be of a dignity to suit so great an occasion, but the words died away upon her lips; for once she forgot Venice and the Ca' Giustiniani, and the mother was uppermost. She folded her arms about him closely, and rested her head upon his shoulder in delicious abandon.
"Marco, my boy!" she murmured.
His heart overflowed to her in unaccustomed endearments, so rarely did she express any emotion, and to-day the rebound from the morning's repression filled him with hope and gladness. All fear of winning her aid was lifted. "Madre mia!" he cried, his face radiant with happiness.
"This day is not as other days," she said, half in apology for her weakness, as she recovered herself.
"I have a gift for thee, madre mia; let me bring it."
"I need no gift, Marco; for now hast thou everything before thee—every honor that Venice may offer to a Venetian of the Venetians! Forget it not, my Marco."
But he had already flown from her, with impatient, lover's footsteps.Now that the moment had come he could not wait.
"Mother!" he cried, with shining eyes, as he placed the costly case upon a table and drew her gently toward it.
She stood in mute astonishment before the faultless gift, this perfect bit of Beroviero crystal,—opalesque and lucent, reflecting hidden rainbow tints, enhanced by the golden traceries delicate and artistic—the beautiful young face framed in those sea-gems dear to the Venetian heart, each pearl a study of changing light.
"There is none like it in Venice!" she exclaimed; "nor hath there ever been. Thou hast treated me like a queen, my Marco!"
"I wished it so," he answered impatiently, for he could not wait. "And the face——"
"Never hath there been a more exquisite! It is the Titian's work?"
"Nay, of the Veronese; for the goblet is of mine own designing. And the master, for my sake, hath spent himself upon the face."
"He will be here to-night, and we will thank him," she answered graciously. "And for thee—thou hast excelled thyself."
But Marcantonio answered nothing to her praise; his eyes were fixed upon the miniature of the Veronese.
"If Paolo Cagliari findeth none so beautiful among the noble damigelle who will grace thy fête to-night as this face which he hath painted, we will forgive him," she said playfully. "But thee, Marco, we will not forgive. The time hath come when thou shouldst choose; thy father and I have spoken of this."
She came close to him and folded his hand caressingly. "The ContessaBeata Tagliapietra hath a wonderful charm; and there is the LadyAgnesina Contarini—a face for a Titian!"
"Mother! I pray thee——" Marcantonio interrupted.
"Nay, Marco—to-day it is fitting; for thy wedding should follow soon upon this fête. Thou art no longer a boy, and Venice looks to us to help thee choose a fitting bride; for there is none other of this generation of thy name, and thou,—I will not hide it from thee since thou needest heartening,—thou wilt be a fortunate wooer with these maidens, or—or elsewhere. But my little Beata is charming——-"
"Mother," said Marcantonio, flushing like a boy, yet drawing himself up proudly, "I have already crowned her who shall be my bride with pearls; and for her face—thou hast named it exquisite." Then, unbending, he threw his arms around her and kissed her on the forehead.
The Lady Laura stood as if petrified.
"I know her not," she said, when she could speak. "Name her to me." Her voice was hard and strained.
"Do not speak so, madre mia! Love her—she is so charming! And she will not come to me unless thou love her too."
"How, then—if she is thy bride?" The words seemed to choke her.
"Nay, but mychosenbride—holding my vows with my heart; yet, unless thou plead with me for my happiness she will not wed me—she is so proud."
"Name her," the Lady Laura repeated, unbending slightly.
"Marina Magagnati."
She stood listening, as if more were to follow, then she shook her head."I know not the name, unless—but it is not possible! She is not ofVenice, then?"
"A Venetian of the Venetians, my mother, with the love of Venice in her soul—but not——"
"Marcantonio, explain thine enigma! How should there be a name of all our nobles unknown to me?"
"There are nobles of the 'Libro d'Oro,' my mother, and—nobles of the people, and she is of these."
"How canst thou name a mesalliance to me—Marcantonio Giustiniani,Nobile di Consiglio—on this day, when thou hast given thy vows toVenice! Thou dost forget the traditions of thine house."
"Nay, mother; Venice and the Ca' Giustiniani I am not likely to forget," he answered, with sudden bitterness. "One thing—quite other—am I much more likely to forget; but for this have I sworn, that which my heart teaches me for noble will I do, and she whom I love will I wed—or none other."
"Marco!" the word seemed a desperate appeal.
"That do I swear upon this sword which my father hath given me to prove my knighthood—'to enrich,' he hath said, 'the records of our house.' And thou wilt help me, my mother, for I love thee!" His voice had grown tender and pleading again.
"I also love thee, Marco," she answered more gently, for none could resist his voice when this mood was upon him; "but I may not help thee to undo thyself and forget the honor of thine house."
"Mother," said Marcantonio, sternly, "charge me with no unknightly deed! To love Marina is to love a woman nobler than any of thy maidens; thou knowest her not. I would bring her to thee to win thee, but she will not come. It is thou, she saith, who must send her sign of favor."
"I fear me it must be long in going, my Marco; yet I love thee well. How should I send my favor to a daughter of the people!"
"Those are the words of Marina Magagnati."
"She is wise then; she will help thee to forget."
"The vow of a Giustinian is never broken; that hast thou taught me, my mother, from the legends of our house. This sword, upon which I have sworn it, I lay at thy feet. Bid me raise it in token of thy favor and of thine aid in this one thing which I ask of thee."
They stood looking into each other's faces, her pride melting under the glow of the beautiful new strength in the face of the son whom she had thought so yielding; yet it was she who had striven to teach him knightliness.
She hesitated,—"If I cannot aid thee, what wilt thou do?"
"I must wait and suffer," he said; "for Marina will not yield."
"It is new for a maiden of the people to know such pride," she answered, scornfully.
"It is because none are like her, and her soul is beautiful as her face! My mother, there are none prouder in all this palace; the little Contessa Beata is acontadinabeside her! Yet, it is not pride, I think, but love and care for my happiness," he added, grown suddenly bold. "She will not come to bring me sorrow; and she hath said that my duty being to Venice, she can wed me only with the consent of our house. And Messer Magagnati——"
"There is a father, then, who would treat with thee?"
"Mother—use not that tone; thou dost not understand! Ask the Veronese. Messer Magagnati knows not of this; for so tenderly doth his daughter care for him that, to save him pain of knowing that she suffers for lack of thy welcome, she hath not told him. Shall the Veronese plead with thee better than thine own son? For he knoweth the maiden well; and the father, who is most honorably reported in Venice for the wonder of his discoveries in his industry of glass. He is of the people—of the 'original citizens'—for of the days before theserrata[1] hath his family records; but he might well be of the Signoria, so grave he is and full of dignity. And his name is old—Mother!"
[1] An important constitutional act, limiting the aristocracy to those families who had at that period, sat in the Council; always referred to as an era in Venetian history.
"Nay, Marco, lift thy sword; how should it lie there for lack of thy mother's favor? I will not have thee suffer, if I can give thee aid. But one may suffer in other ways—quite other—which thou hast no knowledge of, for to thee there seemeth to be, in all the world, nothing worthy but this wish of thine! But it is no promise; one must ponder in so great a matter, my boy!"
They broke down in each other's arms, clasping the sword between them.
The Senator's firm step resounded on the marble floor; they had scant time to recover themselves; but his eyes fell at once upon the magnificent goblet, and there was pleasure in his stern face.
"This, then, is of thy designing, Marcantonio," he exclaimed, as he stooped to examine it in its case of satin and velvet. "A veritable gift-piece! And already thou hast won the favor of the Senate, since it hath been reported to them by our Chief of the Ten, who hath the industries of Murano in charge, that at the exhibit given yestere'en a goblet more sumptuous than that prepared for his Majesty of France was of thy designing. The Secretary will bring thee this night a summons from the Ten to appear before them on the morrow to receive their congratulations, because of the inspiration thou hast given to our most valued industry.
"It is a rare mark of favor that it hath been confided to me," Giustinian continued, still examining the goblet with pride, "since custom doth require that one should withdraw from the sitting of the Council when any matter touching his house is treated. But Morosini, by grace of the Signoria, hath been with me for a moment, that there may be no misgivings of fear upon this fête-day of our house. And to-night this summons to favor shall be presented, to honor the youngest member of the Consiglio. Marcantonio, I am proud of thee; the Ten will be here—every one! And verily the goblet is beautiful. It shall be well displayed in the great banquet hall."
"Here, in my boudoir, where my boy hath placed it," said the mother quickly, as the Senator would have lifted it, "since it is my gift. And, Marco"—She turned to him a face softened and beautified by the struggle, which had been very great, and her eyes were deep with a light which bound him to her forever.
"Marco mio, it shall be well displayed. For I will bid my maidens circle this table whereon it rests with a wreath of roses—white and very beautiful—in token of thy mother's favor."
Marina, under the yellow glare of the lamp in the dark oak cabinet, worked fitfully, with broken, lifeless strokes, at the designs before her; while her father, feigning absorption in some new drawings which lay spread out within touch of his strong-veined hands, watched her furtively from the other side of the table.
"Thou art restless," he said, suddenly and sternly; "what aileth thee?"
Her lip quivered, but she did not look up, while with an effort she steadied the movement of her hand and continued her work. "My hand hath no cunning to-night, and it vexeth me, my father."
"It is poor work when the heart is lacking," he answered, in a tone charged with irritation. "I also have seen a thing which hath taken my heart from me."
The color deepened in her cheeks and the pencil strokes came more falteringly, but she answered nothing.
"Nay, then!" he exclaimed, more brusquely than his wont, as he stretched out his hand and arrested her movement. "What I have to say to thee importeth much."
She flushed and paled with the struggle of the moment, then a beautiful calm came over her face; she laid down her pencil and, quietly dropping her hands in her lap, she turned to him with a smile that might have disarmed an angrier man—it was full of tenderness, though it was shadowed by pain.
It relaxed his sternness, and, after a moment's hesitation, he came around the table and sat down beside her.
"To-night is the fête at Ca' Giustiniani, for the young noble of their house."
He waited for her to speak, but she did not tremble now, though he was searching her face.
"Yes, father, I know."
"And, Marina—I do not understand—and it is a grief to me——"
She nestled to him closely and tried to slip one of her slender hands between his, which were tightly strained together in a knotted clasp, as if he would make them the outlet for some unbearable emotion.
The previous evening was the first they had not passed together since the death of Zuanino; her father had sent her word that he had matter which would occupy him alone, and all day Marina had been heavy-hearted, going at matins and at vespers quite alone to the Madonna at the Duomo, that she might take comfort and counsel.
Girolamo did not respond to her caress, though his tone softened a little as he proceeded with his tale and her arm stole round him.
"Yesterday, at the stabilimento Beroviero, we were summoned by a call of our Capo of the Ten to witness the approval that should be passed on the exhibit of that stabilimento; we all, of the Guild of Murano, were there as always. And foremost among the productions, most marvelous for beauty, was a fabric of their lucent crystal—thou knowest it, Marina? My child—how came thy face there?Thyface, Marina—set round with lustrous pearls!"
He folded her to his breast with sudden passion, and stooped his head to her shoulder for an instant, lifting it quickly that she might not feel the sobbing of his breath which, even more than his broken words, betrayed his anguish.
"Dearest father, it was because I loved thee so much that I would not have thee suffer from my pain, that I told thee not. Never again will I hold aught from thee."
"Thy pain, Marina? and thy face—and for the young noble, Giustiniani? I do not understand."
"Father, because I could grant him nothing and he would give me everything, and because—because God sent the love and the Madonna hath made me feel that it would be sweet, I granted him only this—my portrait—because he pleaded so one could not resist; and because he said it would win the consent of all to see that he treated me like a queen!"
"Nay; one comes not in secret to steal the love of a queen."
"My father," answered the maiden proudly, for he had drawn away from her, "there is no stealing of that which I would gladly yield him, if it were thy pleasure and that of the Ca' Giustiniani! And there would have been no secret; but I—to spare thee pain of knowing that I suffered—I would not let him come to plead with thee."
"Why shouldst thou suffer?"
"It is hard to lose thy love when only I told thee not because I would spare thee pain! Father—I have only thee!" Her courage broke in a quick sob.
"Nay, then—nay, then," he faltered softly, stroking her bowed head; "he is no man to love, if he would let thee suffer; he should take thee—before them all—if he would be worthy——"
The low, intense, interrupted words were a brave surrender.
"Ay, my father, it is like Marco to hear thee speak!"
"Then let him come and make thee Lady of the Giustiniani, like a true knight!" exclaimed the old man fiercely.
"Ay, father, so would he; but I have told him that thou and I are not less proud than those of his own house, and without their consent it may not be."
"Nay, I care not for their house—only for thy happiness; he shall wed thee, and my home is thine; I have enough for thee and him; he shall not make thee suffer."
They were close together now, father and daughter—a beautiful group in the yellow lamplight against the dark background that surrounded them like an impassible fate; her face was a study of happiness, tenderness, suffering, and strength; her father wrapped her close in his protecting arms, and thus she could bear everything. They were silent for a while: he trying to accept the revelation in its strangeness, she planning how she should make him understand.
"I am glad thou knowest it, dear father," she said at length, very softly. "I have thy love—I can bear everything."
"Nay, thou shalt have nothing to bear! Thou shalt be Lady of theGiustiniani—what means the portrait else?"
"It is like Marco again!" she cried, with a little pleased laugh. "He said—because I would make him no promise until all consented—that he would take me thus before all the world, and that should make them consent."
"Nay, let him come out from his house and take thee! I also, of the people, bear an ancient name, and I have kept it honorable. Pietro, the earliest master of our beautiful art, was thine ancestor. The Giustinian stoops not in taking thee."
"He is noble enough to be thy son, my father—and chivalrous as thou—but we are too noble to let him do aught unbefitting his noble house; for thou knowest the Giustiniani are like princes in Venice, and Marco is their only son. He oweth duty to the Republic; and this day, in the Ducal Palace, hath he sworn his oath of allegiance."
"First should it have been to thee!"
"Ay, first it was to me," she answered serenely; "he would not have it otherwise; it is onlymypromise that is lacking. This will I not give until the Giustiniani make me welcome, or there would be no happiness for Marco. He shall not lose, in loving me. The Signor Giustinian Giustiniani is so stern—and one of the Chiefs—I would not vex him and bring down the displeasure of the Ten; I would bring my Marco happiness—not pain."
"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 fête 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.
"It is but a moment that I have for this dearest claim of the day," said Marcantonio Giustiniani, turning to the older man with winning courtesy; "and sooner should I have come to the father of Marina to crave the grace I cannot do without, but that she bade me tarry. Yet now—she herself hath spoken?"
He looked from one to the other questioningly.
"There are no secrets between us," Girolamo answered with dignity, while weighing some words that should welcome his daughter's suitor with discretion and reserve.
But the maiden broke in timidly: "And he is not angry, Marco mio!"
"Nay, my favor is for him who truly honors my daughter and proves himself worthy; for her happiness is dear to me. But the difficulties are great, as she herself hath told me."
"A little time and there shall be none!" cried Marcantonio, joyously. "For to-day, when first I have taken my seat in the Council, not more solemnly have I sworn allegiance to the Republic than I would pray Messer Magagnati to bear me witness that Marina—and none other—will I wed!"
"Give him thy hand, my daughter, for thy face confesseth thee; and to-day his lady should grant him so much grace."
"Yet, Marco—for thy sake—I make no vows to thee. Only this will I tell thee," she added, in a voice that was very soft and low, as he sealed his lover's vow on her fluttering hand. "For me, also, there is no other!"
"And I bring thee a 'boccolo,' Marina, since thou art of the people and wouldst have me remember all thy traditions," he cried gaily. "Yet this one hath a fragrance like none other that hath ever blossomed on the festa of San Marco—my blessed patron!—for I culled it from the garland which my mother bade her maidens for a token make about the table where thy portrait is displayed."
He raised the rosebud to his lips before he placed it in her hand.
"And the Senator Giustinian Giustiniani?" Girolamo questioned, in his grave, deep voice, concealing his triumph.
But Marcantonio had already answered to the timid question of Marina's eyes, with a ringing tone of assurance.
"And for my father—we must have courage!"
The summons from the Ten had been presented with ceremony on the night of the fête at Ca' Giustiniani, and Marcantonio was grateful for the strong support of Paolo Cagliari's friendly presence, as they went together to the Sala di Collegio in the Ducal Palace; for this seemed to the young noble an opportunity, that might never come again, of presenting his petition to ears not all unfavorable; and there was a thrill of triumph in the thought that his maiden speech before this august body should be his plea for Marina's admission to the favor of the Signoria. Already fortune had been kind to him beyond his hopes, and, with the daring of youth, he was resolved to claim the possible. The Veronese alone knew of his intention, and as to his father—he could only put him out of his thoughts. If the Senate listened to his petition there would be no difficulties, but he would not weaken his courage by any previous contest, unavailing as it must be.
Meanwhile there was the remembrance of the roses of the LadyLaura—fragrant with her great renunciation.
The honor of this summons was reflected in the increased dignity of the elder Giustinian, and in a tinge of urbanity new to him, as he parted from Paolo Caghari and Marcantonio, who remained standing on the floor of the hall, to take his seat among the senators in the seats running around the chamber, as on the previous day, instead of the one rightfully his own among the higher Council who were to pronounce the laudatory words.
The industries of Murano had always been dear to the senatorial heart, but of late years the fostering care of the Republic had been increased to an unprecedented degree, and the stimulus thus given to the workmen of Murano had been evidenced in a series of brilliant discoveries, so that the marvel of their fabrics had become as much a source of jealousy to other nations as of revenue and pride to the Republic.
Thus the affair of this gift-piece of crystal was deemed of quite sufficient importance to occupy the attention of the senators, who prepared themselves to listen with every symptom of interest to this report of the exhibit of Murano, which had been read on the previous day before the Ten.
It had chanced before that these reports had been followed by words of commendation, but it had rarely happened that a young noble had been summoned before the Collegio to receive such a testimonial, and the occasion lost none of its interest from the fact that many of those present had witnessed the presentation of the summons in the banquet hall of the palazzo Giustiniani.
The famous goblet, by order of the Senate, was also present, as a proof that the laudatory words pronounced by the Secretary of the Ten at the close of the report were well deserved.
It was not often that a member won distinction on the day of his entrance to the Gran' Consiglio; the favor shown by the Senate was great; the position of the Ca' Giustiniani among the proud Venetian nobility was beyond question; and some of the fathers of the young and noble ladies who had graced the banquet watched the young Giustinian with a quite personal interest.
"It was time," they said, "that the handsome young patrician should choose a bride."
"And once before, in the history of the Republic, as now," suggested another, "there was but one of the Ca' Giustiniani."
There was a sympathetic and ominous shaking of heads, for the story was well known.
"But to none of those golden-haired maidens who danced at his fête would he show favor, though upon his birthnight. And when the Lady Beata had asked him shyly why he wore a white rose in his doublet, he had told her saucily, 'The meaning of the flower issilence.'"
These and other trifles bearing upon the ceremony of the morning were discussed in pleasant asides, while the report had been read and the note of approval had been proclaimed to Marcantonio, who dropped the arm of his friend and came forward to receive it.
"My Lords of the Senate, the Collegio and most Illustrious Ten!" he responded, with a courtly movement of deference which included them all, "I thank you! In that it graciously pleaseth you to bestow upon me your favor for a trifle of designing which was the pastime of an hour, and made for the pleasure of the giving in homage to the noble Lady Laura Giustiniani. But the praise of it should not be mine; it is rather to the stabilimento which hath shown perfection in its workmanship. But first to him, the master, who hath given it its crowning grace. I pray you, let me share the unmerited honor of this commendation with Paolo Cagliari,detto Veronese, without whom my little had been nothing!"
The chivalry and grace of the young noble elicited a murmur of approbation, as he courteously indicated his friend.
The Veronese, to whom thisdénouementwas unexpected, and who had long since been crowned with highest honors by the Republic, did not move forward, but, acknowledging the tribute of his pupil with a genial smile, he stood with folded arms, unembarrassed and commanding, scanning the faces of the assembly, well pleased with the effect produced by the words of Marcantonio, whom, at all hazards, he intended to befriend. He realized that the atmosphere might never be so favorable.
"The crowning grace of that goblet, my Lords of Venice," he said boldly, "is lent it by the face of the most beautiful maiden it hath ever been my fortune to paint—than whom Venice hath none more charming."
There was a murmur of surprise from the younger nobles, who were standing in groups about the hall of the Gran' Consiglio; they had supposed the face to be merely a dainty conceit of the artist's fancy, and those nearest gathered about the case with sudden interest.
But the face of Marcantonio betrayed him, while he stood unabashed in the circle of the senators, though with mounting color, his hand, under shelter of his cloak, resting upon the jeweled hilt of the sword upon which he had sworn his first knightly vow.
Giustinian Giustiniani rose to his feet. "Her name, Messer PaoloCagliari!" he thundered.
But it was the young Giustinian who answered to the challenge—"Marina Magagnati!" with an unconscious reverence, as he confessed his lady's name.
"Is no face found fair enough among all the palaces on the Canal Grande to charm thy fastidious fancy?" cried the angry father, losing all self-control. "It were fitter that the name of thine inamorata were first declared elsewhere than in this presence!"
"Not so, my father," Marcantonio replied, undaunted. "For I first would ask a grace of our most illustrious Signoria,—the which may it indeed please them to grant,—or never shall I bring a bride to the Ca' Giustiniani. As I have sworn a noble's oath of allegiance to Venice, so faithfully have I vowed to wed none other than Marina Magagnati! And it is my father who hath taught me to hold sacred the faith of a Venetian and a Giustinian. But my lady is notcalledof noble blood."
"She is daughter to Messer Girolamo Magagnati,"—it was the Veronese who spoke,—"than whom, in all Murano, is none better reputed for the fabrics of his stabilimento, nor more noble in his bearing; albeit, he is of the people—as I also, Paolo Cagliari, am of the people."
The words had a ring of scorn; the Veronese folded his arms again and looked defiantly around him—a splendid figure, with the jeweled orders of France and Rome and the Republic flashing on his breast. His gaze slowly swept the faces of the assembly, then returned to rest upon the great votive picture which filled the wall from end to end above the Doge's throne—his work—like the glory of the ceiling, which declared the artist noble by genius, if not by birth. "I also am of the people!" he repeated, in a tone that seemed a challenge.
"Most Illustrious Signoria!" cried Marcantonio; "once, in the history of our Republic, hath it pleased this most gracious Senate to declare its favor to a daughter of a master-worker of Murano, in a decree whereby it was provided that the maid should wed a noble of most ancient house, and if there should be children of the marriage, each name should stand unprejudiced, with those of the nobles of Venice, in the 'Libro d'Oro.' If I have found favor in your sight—I beseech you—that which the Senate hath once decreed is again possible."
The senators looked at each other in consternation, awed at the boldness of the petition and the wit of its presentation.
The young patrician slowly ascended the steps of the dais, and closed his appeal with an obeisance to the Doge, full of dignity.
The Councillors who sat beside the Doge were holding grave discussion, for the few words of the young noble had touched upon weighty points; they had been presented with a simplicity which veiled their diplomatic force; he was a man of growing power who must be bound to the service of Venice, even were he not the last of a princely line which the Republic would fain see continued to her own latest generation. So unabashed in such a presence, he would be tenacious of his purpose and hold to his vow with unflinching knightliness.
Venice and his lady were included in his sworn allegiance, and to seek to make them rivals would be a danger for the Republic.
Never before had appeal been made to this decree; it was not fresh in the minds of the Savii and the six most venerated Councillors without whose acquiescence the mandate of the Doge was powerless, and they had listened to the bold declaration with a surprise not unmingled with resentment, that so young a man should make, in their presence, an assertion touching matters of State which they could neither affirm nor deny! At a sign from one of the chancellors, one of the three counsellors at law of the Avvogadori di Commun, who had the keeping of the Golden Book, had been immediately summoned from adjoining chambers in the Palace and had confirmed the statement. Such a marriage had indeed taken place in the latter half of the fourteenth century; the number of the decree authorizing the full nobility of the children had been noted in the Golden Book, the original decree could therefore be found, within the archives, upon demand of the Savii.
The case had changed from a matter of gracious policy to one of unquestioned importance in the minds of the gravest counsellors of the Republic—in spite of the glamor of romance which threatened to lessen its dignity by winning the enthusiastic support of the younger members of the assembly and the jealous opposition of the older senators, who were tenacious of the privileges and restrictions of the ancient nobility of Venice. The faces of many among them were dark and threatening. One of their number high in authority, whose seat was near the Savii on the dais, and who was known to be of the strictest oligarchical proclivities, risked the words, "Remember the Serrata Consiglio," in a clear undertone, but was immediately repressed by a terrible glance from more than one of the commanding Savii.
Giustinian Giustiniani was alone kept silent by the force of conflicting emotions which left him only strength enough to realize that he was too angry to advise with dignity, though he was one of the Chiefs of the Ten. He had been outwitted in the presence of the Maggior Consiglio by a son who had shown an astuteness and courtliness of which any Venetian father might be proud, together with a knowledge of the point upon which he based his appeal, which required the summoning of the Avvogadori di Commun, though it was uttered in the presence of the six supreme Councillors of the Republic! He could not interpose to demean his ancient lineage by consenting to this unpatrician alliance; he would not accept the alternative for his only son—the last of the Giustiniani! Nor could he urge a Giustinian to break a vow of honor made before the highest tribunal of the realm. He was trembling with wrath and filled with admiration, while he sat speechless, awaiting the issue of a question which so deeply concerned the interests of the Ca' Giustiniani.
The impression was profound, and a silence fell upon that magnificent assembly through which the rulers of the ship of state seemed to hear the throbbings of a threatened storm. They were men of power, and they realized that it was a moment when action should be prompt and positive.
A yellowed parchment, with the great seal of the Republic appended, was brought in state from the adjoining chambers of the Avvogadori and laid before the Doge, who passed it, in turn, to each of his Councillors.
The silence was breathless. All eyes turned instinctively upon the young noble, who had withdrawn to the side of his friend, and stood, unconscious of their gaze, radiant with his hope of Marina.
"Nobles of the Gran' Consiglio of our Most Serene Republic," said the Doge at last with deep impressiveness, "this record is the original decree of this Senate, of the fourteenth century, given under the Great Seal of the Republic in 1357. It hath been duly laid before our Councillors in your presence and unanimously confirmed by them. And they do unanimously consent to this our ruling in favor of the petition which hath this day been presented before this Council by the noble Marcantonio, of the ancient and princely house of Giustinian. Since in this sixteenth century our Republic, by grace of God and favor of her Rulers, is not less enlightened than in those earlier days to perceive when graciousness may promote her welfare, in granting favor to a noble house which hath ever shown to Venice its valor, its discretion, its unfailing loyalty."
A cry of exaltation rang through the house like an electric thrill; the senators started to their feet.
"My life, my faith, my strength—the might of all my house for Venice!" shouted the young Giustinian, with his sword held high above his head, like an inspired leader.