He had fought the good fight. He had won it for Venice and for
humanity. For all this, the Republic had, in his later years,
tried to show her gratitude, and he had quietly and firmly
refused the main gifts proposed to him. But now came a new
outburst of grateful feeling. The Republic sent notice of his
death to other powers of Europe through its Ambassadors in the
terms usual at the death of royal personages; in every way, it
showed its appreciation of his character and services, and it
crowned all by voting him a public monument.

Hardly was the decree known, when the Vatican authorities sent
notice that, should any monument be erected to Sarpi, they would
anew and publicly declare him excommunicate as a heretic. At
this, the Venetian Senate hesitated, waited, delayed. Whenever
afterwards the idea of carrying out the decree for the monument
was revived, there set in a storm of opposition from Rome. Hatred
of the terrible friar's memory seemed to grow more and more
bitter. Even rest in the grave was denied him. The church where
he was buried having been demolished, the question arose as to
the disposition of his bones. To bury them in sacred ground
outside the old convent would arouse a storm of ecclesiastical
hostility, with the certainty of their dispersion and
desecration; it seemed impossible to secure them from priestly
hatred: therefore it was that his friends took them from place to
place, sometimes concealing them in the wall of a church here,
sometimes beneath the pavement of a church there, and for a time
keeping them in a simple wooden box at the Ducal Library. The
place where his remains rested became, to most Venetians,
unknown. All that remained to remind the world of his work was