the same as theirs, current political intrigues seemed likely to
bring Spain and even France into a league with the Vatican.

To a people so devoted to commerce, yet so religious, the threat
of an interdict was serious indeed. All church services were to
cease; the people at large, no matter how faithful, were to be as
brute beasts,--not to be legally married,--not to be consoled by
the sacraments,--not to be shriven, and virtually not to be
buried; other Christian peoples were to be forbidden all dealings
with them, under pain of excommunication; their commerce was to
be delivered over to the tender mercies of any and every other
nation; their merchant ships to be as corsairs; their cargoes,
the legitimate prey of all Christendom; and their people, on sea
and land, to be held as enemies of the human race. To this was
added, throughout the whole mass of the people, a vague sense of
awful penalties awaiting them in the next world. Despite all
this, the Republic persisted in asserting its right.

Just at this moment came a diplomatic passage between Pope and
Senate like a farce before a tragedy, and it has historical
significance, as showing what resourceful old heads were at the
service of either side. The Doge Grimani having died, the Vatican
thought to score a point by promptly sending notice through its
Nuncio to Venice that no new election of a Doge could take place
if forbidden by the Pope, and that, until the Senate had become
obedient to the papacy, no such election would be sanctioned. But
the Senate, having through its own Ambassador received a useful
hint, was quite equal to the occasion. It at once declined to
receive this or any dispatch from the Pope on the plea, made with
redundant courtesy and cordiality, that, there being no Doge,