"Oh, Marco, thou art come! It hath been long without thee."
"The Senate is but just dismissed," he answered, smiling fondly at the eagerness which gave to her pale face a passing flush of health. "But why is the Lady Beata not with thee?" he questioned abruptly.
"She is in the chapel, making it fair with flowers."
"Thou knowest it, Marina?"
"She came to me with a question but a little while ago, when Marconino was with me—and I wished to be alone. Marco, he was so beautiful! And the day has been a dream; I wished for no one but for thee alone."
He held her hand in a mute caress, but with preoccupation, while his eyes wandered back to the Piazzetta searchingly.
"It is strange," he muttered to himself, still watching from the end of the balcony. "It was an echo of the Lady Beata's voice that startled me, crossing the Piazzetta saying two words only—'In Padua.'"
Then rousing himself, he turned brightly to his wife. "Carina, I have news for thee, for the time hath been momentous for us in Venice. Di Gioiosa hath gone forward, these many days, with terms from Venice; and soon, it is thought, there will be peace."
Terms from Venice to Rome!—but the words did not move her from her resolve to let no shadow of their difference mar the beauty of this night.
She looked at him wearily. "It is ever the same," she said, "through this long, dreary year—ever the same! Let us forget it all for this one night. Let us talk together of our Marconino!"