e and quiet her
fears. But now he could not find the words he sought, for never had he
looked into eyes so full of a comprehending woe.

"Marina," he began. "Carinissima--" helplessly repeating his powerless
assurance: "It is well."

Still her deep eyes seemed to question him relentlessly, though she did
not speak; her gaze fascinated him, and he could not withdraw his eyes
until he had read in hers the great agony he had so lightly
estimated--the agony of a soul deeply religious, of unquestioning faith
in the strictest doctrine and dogma of the Church of Rome; the grief of
such a soul, tenderly compassionate for the suffering brought upon an
innocent people by no rebellion of its own; the terror of this
soul--passionately loving--measuring the horrors of an unblessed life
and death for all its dearest ones.

"All?" she had seemed to question him, leaning nearer, and Marcantonio
could not answer; but he saw, from the deepening horror in her eyes,
that she understood. She knew that _he_ had helped to bring the doom.
Oh, if he could but have told her that he had not voted--that he had
withheld his one little vote from Venice to comfort her! If, for this
once, he had failed to give what Venice expected of him, only for
Marina's sake!

He bent over her passionately, a thousand reasons rushing to his rescue,
clamoring to be told her. "Marina, beloved, there is nothing to fear!"
he cried desperately, eager for his own defense, resolute to make her
comprehend the perfect safety of Venice, to calm the beseeching horror
in her eyes; "Fra Paolo will come!"

Her gaze relaxed, her eyelids quivered and closed; she had fainted.

--Or was it death?

He folded her to his heart with a cry of desolation.

The Lady Beata hastily thrust him aside and opened the white robe at the
throat, and Marcantonio started back; there were stripes of half-healed
laceration on the tender flesh--some fresh, as if but just raised by the
lash.

"Ay, my lord," Beata answered very low, to his quick, grieved question;
"all that a daughter of the Church may do hath our lady added to her
prayers for Venice. She hath been rigorous in fasting and in penance
until her strength is gone; but the pain of it she feeleth not, because
of the greater pain of her soul, which is lost in supplication that
availeth naught."

Leonardo Donato would be very gracious to the Lady of the Giustiniani,
though she had come so near to costing the city a divided vote, beca