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"Nay, Marco--to-day it is fitting; for thy wedding should follow soon
upon this fete. 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.


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