For a moment she looked at him awestruck, longing to give the submission
which would bring her rest; it was not strange that she loved him so;
oh, if she might but acquiesce in his view of right! Madre Beatissima,
life was hard, and the way of right was the way of the cross--how many
holy women had found it so! One hand stole to the little crucifix
beneath her robe and pressed its roughened surfaces into her breast, for
she must not place the sweetness of this earthly love before the duty of
the heavenly one. "Santa Maria, save me!" she prayed, while, only for
one moment, she drooped her head to his shoulder and nestled close, that
he should know her heart was his, whatever came--_whatever came_.
Was it strange that her agony threatened her reason? In that one little
moment of comfort, which she yearned to hold free from suffering that
its remembrance might uphold her, the powerful vision of the
Tintoretto's awful _Judgment_ rose beckoningly before her. It was the
doom of Venice, and she alone--so impotent--recognized the danger.
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