“There is but One to whom is owed this supreme and inalterable obedience, my daughter; we do not differ in our beliefs; yield it always to him, most reverently and unreservedly,” Fra Paolo answered solemnly.  “But upon this earth, it hath been taught us by our Lord himself, ’there is none good—­nay, not one.’  The Head of the Church of God is God himself, the only infallible and just.  Thinkest thou that He would have us obey a command conceived in error, with intention to exclude from every benefit of our Holy Church, in the hour when they most need divine comfort and protection, those who would faithfully do him service?  Thus read we not the love and mercy of our Heavenly Father!”

“Most Reverend Father,” she cried, clasping her hands in extremity.  “How shall a weak, untaught woman reason with the Counsellor of Venice!  I know not where the words are written—­but, somewhere, Fra Francesco hath taught me, yet his soul is loving—­there is a thought of the vengeance of God, and it is terrible!  Day and night there is no other vision in my soul but this—­of the vengeance of God, poured out upon the disobedient.  For this the blessed Mater Dolorosa of San Donato weepeth ceaselessly.  Love is for those who serve him; but vengeance—­here and hereafter—­for those who disobey.  Oh, my Father! for every human soul in Venice—­the helpless women, who have no power but prayer, which is but insult while God’s face is hidden—­the little children who have done no harm—­Madre Beatissima, how can we bear it!”

“Nay, nay, my daughter, for our Father is righteous and merciful.  ‘Vengeance is mine,’ he saith; ‘I will repay.’  He giveth no man charge to bring his wrath upon us.  He hath invested no human power with a supremacy beyond that which abideth in every loving and faithful soul, as to the things of the conscience.  Thou, with thy love and faith and pain, art at this moment very near to Him; be comforted, and cease not to believe that He counteth all thy tears, and that thy prayers are dear to Him.”

“My Father,” she confessed sadly, “it is a part of the shadow that it hides my faith; night and day, with fast and penance, have I not ceased to pray for Venice—­and the answer hath been denied me.  I could seek for death, but for the horror that cometh after, at the Madonna dell’ Orto—­the Tintoret—­and that which the Michelangelo hath seen in vision—­Oh, my God!”

“My child, it is not God who faileth thee in answer to thy prayer; and love and faith are yet strong and beautiful within thy soul; only a human weakness is upon thee which cloudeth thy human reason, and for this thy soul is dark.  For reason, also, is of God’s gift—­lower than faith and love, yet a very needful part of man while God leaveth him in his human habitation.  There hath come an answer to the prayer, though thou see’st it not.”

“Is it written, my father, in the cruel words of the interdict?” she gasped.

“She is tortured out of reverence,” Santorio exclaimed apart, and would have hushed her.