" He stood, peering out into the gray gloom and listening to the
lessening plash of the oar, until the gondola of the gastaldo was
already far on the way to San Marco, where sat the Ten.
But it was not of Piero's mission he was thinking, but of his
child--saying over and over again those fateful words, "In Venice she
hath no peace." Had Piero said that?
Suddenly the entire speech recurred to him--insistent, tense with
meaning. She could not live in Venice. Marina had no peace in Venice.
She would never forget nor change. She had need of him--of her father's
love; and if he loved enough, _he would find a way_!
Chilled and heart-sick he turned, and with no torch and missing the
voice which had guided him through the long, dark passage, he groped his
way to his cabinet and sat down to confront a graver problem than any he
had ever conquered with Marina's aid. He _would_ find a way--but "it
must not be in Venice!" How could they leave Venice? Were they not
Venetians born, and was not Venice in trouble? To leave her now were to
deny her.
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