"Shall the pleasure of the lady of this noble house not be consulted?"
Piero questioned, struggling to cover his defiance under a tone of
deference.
But his answer was only in the secretary's eyes,--smiling,
imperious,--more defiant than his own impotent will; and in the courtly
waiting attitude, which had not changed, and which seemed unbearably to
lengthen out the passing seconds.
The Lady Beata, winding compassionate arms around her friend, had raised
her veil, whispering words of tenderness.
But there was no recognition in the glance that met hers--only the
immeasurable pathos of a hopeless surrender; the fervent passion of
Marina's will and faith had made all things seem possible of
achievement, though Venice was against her, for had not the mission been
given her in a vision by the Holy Madonna of San Donato--Mother of
Sorrows--and was not the issue sure? And yielding all thought of self
she had braced every faculty to accomplish the holy task of which she
alone felt the urgency.
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