would have led her to the throne; but a gesture
that was scarcely more than a glance conveyed a command he dared not
disobey.

They looked to see a flush of pride on her beautiful face as, in answer
to the Doge's summons, she came slowly forward, with the tiny hand of
the boy clasped in hers--his unsteady, childish footsteps echoing
unevenly on the marble pavement between her measured movements. But she
walked as in a dream, as if she were no longer one of this bright
company, yet strangely beautiful to see, with a face like some noble
spirit,--pale and grieving,--and in her eyes a great trouble that was
full of dignity and love. Over the dark velvet of her robe the
bountiful, white waves of her hair streamed like a bridal veil,
wreathing her brows and her young, pathetic face with silken rings of
drifted snow.

But before she had reached the dais prepared for the Signoria at the end
of the great hall she paused, as if unable to proceed further, swaying
slightly and throwing out her hands to steady herself; a sudden change
swept over her face, and for a moment it seemed that she would fall; the
child, losing hold of her hand, clung sobbing to her skirts, hiding his
pretty head.

Her husband sprang to her aid, tenderly supporting her, but as instantly
she seemed to recover her strength, smiling upon him graciously, while
she gently disengaged herself from his hold, leaving the little one with
him, and gliding rapidly forward, looked around her with unrecognizing
eyes.

It had pleased the whim of the Republic to make some ecclesiastical
parade on this festa of Venice which followed so closely upon the
prosaic closing scene of the quarrel with Rome, wherein no churchly pomp
had been permitted; and as Marina's bewildered gaze steadied itself upon
the noble group of the Signoria, with whom to-day, in great state, sat
the Patriarch of Venice with mitre and hierarchical robes and all the
attendant group of Venetian bishops, a look of intense relief suddenly
flashed over the trouble in her eyes--as if that which she had sought
with such long suffering no longer eluded her.

"Madre Beatissima!" she cried, clasping her crucifix closely to her
breast, and raising her eyes to heaven, "I thank thee!"

The light grew upon her face.

As her whole life had been merged in this struggle which had only
conquered her overwrought heart and brain when she had felt that the
Madonna had deserted her and delivered her to the wrath of V