As they stood, just over
the beautiful bust of the "Marconino" which Vittorio had carved upon the
prow, child and father were an embodiment of the play of the crested
foam over the deep trouble of the waves beneath.
"Was it thus that the nobles took their triumphs?" the people questioned
low of each other. "And where was the Lady Marina, the daughter of
Messer Magagnati--_their_ lady, who had been good to the people?"
"She was there--within," some one answered, "she was not strong--the
salutes were too much for her. She was waiting within, with her
maidens."
"To miss such a beautiful festa! Santa Maria!"--the strong peasant
mothers, clasping their infants in their arms, with prattling,
barefooted children clinging to their mantles--so glad for this glimpse
of holiday--looked again at the beautiful, stern face of this father who
had youth and gifts and wealth, his seat in the Consiglio, his boy in
his arms--but no smile for the people pressing around him ready to shout
his name, and they crossed themselves with a nameless yearning and
dread.
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