Marina had been proud of his cabinet, and he took the little antique
lamp she used to hold for him and unlocked the door with a tremulous
hand, standing unsteadily before it and trying to hearten himself, as he
ruthlessly flashed the light so that each fantastic bit came out in
perfect beauty, glowing with the wonderful coloring of transparent gems.
But suddenly those fearful words of Piero's played riot among them,
obliterating every trace of beauty, every claim of Venice, every
question as to his own judgment or Marina's reasoning--even the ignominy
of the secret flight. "_Thy daughter dying_!"
The letters blazed like stars, gleaming among his papers--glittering
around the chair where Marina used to sit, climbing up into the air,
closing nearer to him--wavering, writhing lines of living fire, tracing
those awful words he could not forget----
"My God!" he cried, "is not Marina more than all!" There was no longer
anything in life that he willed to do but to win peace for her,
according to her whim.
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