Ay, she had loved him, with a holy reverence, for his goodness and
gentleness and faith; for his inflexible grasp of duty, according to his
views of right; for his teachings, which she could understand and which
she believed the Holy Mother had taught him--for his self-denial and
suffering.
And now, for a few moments, she forgot herself--forgot to watch for
Marco, her thoughts busied with the sad tale of Fra Francesco, which
Piero, always _in viaggio_ for business of the Senate, had told her but
a few days before--news that had reached him from the frontier. The
gentle confessor had indeed completed his pilgrimage, barefooted, to
Rome, but had gained no favor with the Holy Father; having at first been
welcomed as a deserter from the enemy's camp, flattered, and plied with
questions, to which Fra Francesco gave no answers--wishing no harm to
Venice nor to any who sat in the councils of the Republic. Whereupon his
lodgings had been changed and all communications with the brothers of
the Servite chapel in Rome had been forbidden.
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