Ever since her husband had left her she had sat with her little one gathered convulsively in her arms, showering upon him a tenderness so passionate and so unlike herself in its uncontrolled expression, that the child, wondering and afraid, was but half-beguiled by the rare treat of the music and the lights of the Canal Grande, and clamored for his nurse.
And now he was gone, with a kiss upon his sweet, round baby-mouth that was like a benediction and a dirge in which a whole heart of wild mother love sobbed itself out in renunciation—but to him it was only strange. And she herself had hushed the grieving quiver of his lip, and quickly filled his dimpled hands with flowers to win the farewell caress of that dancing smile which irradiated his face like an April sunbeam, parting the pink lips over a vision of pearly infant teeth.
Below, in the chapel, her maidens were decking it as for a festa with vines and blossoms which she and Marco had brought that day—that heavenly day—from the beautiful island of Sant'''' Elenà, wandering alone, like rustic lovers, over the luxuriant flower-starred meadows and through the cloistered gardens of its ancient convent, lingering awhile in the chapel of the Giustiniani, while he rehearsed the deeds of those of his own name who slept there so tranquilly under their marble effigies—primate, ambassadors, statesmen, and generals; ay, and more than these—lovers, mothers, and little ones!
And now, while she sat alone in this holy moonlight, the voices of her maidens came in sounds of merriment through the fretted stonework of the great window, and a sweet odor of altar candles and incense mingled with the breath of the blossoms that was wafted up to her; for to-morrow, for the first time since her illness, there would be matins in the chapel of the palazzo, and Marcantonio had assured her that the new father confessor was much like Fra Francesco—coming, also, from the convent of the Servi, that he might seem nearer to her who had so loved the gentle confessor.
Ay, she had loved him, with a holy reverence, for his goodness and gentleness and faith; for his inflexible grasp of duty, according to his views of right; for his teachings, which she could understand and which she believed the Holy Mother had taught him—for his self-denial and suffering.
And now, for a few moments, she forgot herself—forgot to watch for Marco, her thoughts busied with the sad tale of Fra Francesco, which Piero, always in viaggio for business of the Senate, had told her but a few days before—news that had reached him from the frontier. The gentle confessor had indeed completed his pilgrimage, barefooted, to Rome, but had gained no favor with the Holy Father; having at first been welcomed as a deserter from the enemy''''s camp, flattered, and plied with questions, to which Fra Francesco gave no answers—wishing no harm to Venice nor to any who sat in the councils of the Republic. Whereupon his lodgings had been changed and all communications with the brothers of the Servite chapel in Rome had been forbidden. And again, and more than once, he had been brought forth to be questioned; and again there had been nothing told of that which they sought, for they asked him of his friends, and his heart was true. But it was told that he had used strange words. \"Each man is answerable to his own soul and to God for that which he believeth. He answereth not for the faith of another man—nor shall he bring danger upon his friend—who hath also his conscience and God for judge of his faith and actions.\"
\"But what of Fra Paolo?\" he had been asked; \"How doth he defend himself for leading thus the cause of Venice against Rome?\"
\"Am I my brother''''s keeper?\" the gentle Fra Francesco had answered; and had said no more.
\"Thou shalt at least show us how one may obtain speech with him, for the furtherance of his soul''''s salvation—apart from the vigilance of the Senate, and without suspicion in the convent that the message cometh from Rome, else were it not received in that unholy city.\"