Piero was startled at the havoc the night had made, for he had seen her
only the day before, in answer to her summons, when she had been far
more like herself.
"Santa Maria!" he exclaimed, crossing himself, and awkward under the
unaccustomed sense of an overwhelming compassion. "The Holy Mother must
shrive me for breaking my vow, for if San Marco and San Teodoro would
give me a place between them before the matins ring again--mistaking me
for a traitor--I cannot take thee from Venice. We will return," and
already the gondola was yielding to his stroke. "Let Marcantonio bring
thee himself to Rome."
"Piero, thou hast sworn to me! Thou shalt abide by thy promise!" she
cried, seizing the oar in her trembling hand.
"Ay, Marina, I have sworn to thee," he answered, with slow pauses, "and
by our Holy Mother of San Giorgio, I will serve thee like a saint in
heaven. Yet I would thou wert in thy home again--already thou hast
broken thy heart for love of it."
The gondolas of the people were gathering about the steps of the
palaces, bringing their burdens for the day's ongoings in those
luxurious homes; the bells were calling to early Mass; the stir of life
was beginning in the city; soon, in her own palace, her little one would
wake, and Marco--She stood with straining eyes, yearning for the chance
of a face in her palace window--the bare last chance of another sight of
his dear face.
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