They walked through the Piazza; the pigeons amused Paul, and they stopped
and bought corn for them, and fed the greedy creatures, ever ready for the
unending largess of strangers. One or two, bolder than the rest, alighted
on the lady's hat and shoulder, taking the corn from between her red lips,
and Paul felt jealous even of the birds, and drew her on to see the
Campanile, still standing then. They looked at it all, they looked at the
lion, and finally they entered St. Mark's.

And here Paul held her arm, and gazed with bated breath. It was all so
beautiful and wonderful, and new to his eyes. He had scarcely ever been in
a Roman Catholic church before, and had not guessed at the gorgeous beauty
of this half-Byzantine shrine. They hardly spoke. She did not weary him
with details like a guide-book--that would be for his after-life
visits--but now he must see it just as a glorious whole.

"They worshipped here, and endowed their temple with gold and jewels," she
whispered, "and then they went into the Doge's Palace, and placed a word
in the lion's mouth which meant death or destruction to their best
friends! A wonderful people, those old Venetians! Sly and fierce--cruel
and passionate--but with ever a shrewd smile in their eye, even in their
love-affairs. I often ask myself, Paul, if we are not too civilised, we of
our time. We think too much of human suffering, and so we cultivate the
nerves to suffer more, instead of hardening them. Picture to yourself, in
my grandfather's boyhood we had still the serfs! I am of his day, though
it is over--I have beaten Dmitry--"

Then she stopped speaking abruptly, as though aware she had localised her
nation too much. A strange imperious expression came into her eyes as they
met Paul's--almost of defiance.