"It is thus, your Reverence," the young woman explains cheerily. "It is
the grandmother who is afraid. Santa Maria! _how_ she is afraid!" She
touches her forehead significantly.
The simple old woman, comprehending only that they speak of her, drops a
courtesy, looking furtively about her with troubled eyes, and fumbling
over her beads; the "protest" has no meaning for her, although it is
written in good Venetian.
But a few words suffice for such as these who have caught only some
vague hint of the Holy Father's displeasure, and are reassured by the
open church and the promise of Mass and benediction.
It is those others who make trouble; they come, from time to time,--by
twos and threes, never alone,--and read for themselves, with lowering
brows, but ask no questions. And sometimes, if they watch too silently,
the courteous friar who has graciously interpreted the message which is
above the heads of the crowd, exchanges a glance of intelligence with
some gay young signor who belongs to the great army of secret
service--as revealed to the friar on guard by the password of the day;
and the sullen-browed group is courteously accosted by the young
noble--"Excuse me, signori, you are strangers in Venice; a gondola is
waiting to conduct you to the palace.
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