"The bridal must be soon," said the Lady Laura to herself, as she sat
alone in her boudoir, "for the ceasing of this endless gossip." And,
because she could think of nothing else, she was already weary with the
planning of a pageant which made her heart sick.

But Giustinian Giustiniani had no words, for the case was hopeless--only
a face of gloom, and much that was imperative to keep him in the Council
Chamber.

For these few blissful days the lovers had heaven to themselves,
floating about at twilight on the shores of the Lido, where there were
none to trouble the clear serenity of their joy by the chilling breath
of criticism. "That white rose which I brought thee was in sign of my
mother's favor," Marcantonio reminded Marina more than once; "and for
the rest--all will be well; and for a little, we can wait."

Ah, yes, they could wait--in such a smiling world, under a sky so
exquisite, gliding over the opal of the still lagoons at twilight.

But old Girolamo, sure now of the decree which should number his
daughter among the patricians of this Republic where, through long
generations, his family had made their boast that they represented the
people, was in a feverish mood--grave, elated, sad by turns, unwilling
to confess to the loneliness which was beginning to gnaw at his heart,
for Marina was his life; he did not think he could live without her; he
_knew_ he could not live and see her unhappy beside him; and he was old
to learn the new, pathetic part he must play--the waiting for death,
quite alone in the old home.