It was Marcantonio who, with a tenderness that was pathetic and a touch
that was a caress, led her down from her place and folded the little
one's hand in hers. He would have led her to the throne; but a gesture
that was scarcely more than a glance conveyed a command he dared not
disobey.
They looked to see a flush of pride on her beautiful face as, in answer
to the Doge's summons, she came slowly forward, with the tiny hand of
the boy clasped in hers--his unsteady, childish footsteps echoing
unevenly on the marble pavement between her measured movements. But she
walked as in a dream, as if she were no longer one of this bright
company, yet strangely beautiful to see, with a face like some noble
spirit,--pale and grieving,--and in her eyes a great trouble that was
full of dignity and love. Over the dark velvet of her robe the
bountiful, white waves of her hair streamed like a bridal veil,
wreathing her brows and her young, pathetic face with silken rings of
drifted snow.
But before she had reached the dais prepared for the Signoria at the end
of the great hall she paused, as if unable to proceed further, swaying
slightly and throwing out her hands to steady herself; a sudden change
swept over her face, and for a moment it seemed that she would fall; the
child, losing hold of her hand, clung sobbing to her skirts, hiding his
pretty head.
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