But he still waited as if he had not uttered all his mind.  Girolamo studied his face closely.

“There is more,” he said.  “Speak!”

“By the Holy Madonna of San Donato!” said Piero, casting off his restraint with a sudden impulse, “if I come not back, I would have thee know that if ever there came a chance to me to serve Marina—­the Lady Marina of the Giustiniani—­I, Piero, barcariol or gastaldo, would serve her as a soldier may serve a saint.  For she hath been good to the Zuanino.  Ay, though it cost me my life, I would serve her like a saint in heaven!” he repeated.  Then, flushed with the shame of such unwonted speech and confession, he hastened to the door, and his steps were already resounding on the stone floor of the passage when Girolamo recovered from his astonishment sufficiently to follow him into the shadow and command him to stop.

“Thou hast seen my daughter—­thou hast news of her?”

“Ay, yestere’en, at the Ave Maria, I spoke with her, in Santa Maria dell’ Orto, coming upon her kneeling before the great picture of Jacopo Robusti—­she, saint enough already to wear a gloria and looking as if the heart of her were worn away from grief!  She hath need of thee daily, for her love for thee is great, and death not far.”

“Tell it plainly!” commanded Girolamo, hastening after the retreating figure and violently grasping his arm to detain him.  “Have I failed to her in aught?  She is soul of my soul!  Maledetto! why dost thou break my heart?”

“Look to thine other son-in-law!” Piero retorted wrathfully; “him of the crimson robe who sits in the Councils of Venice, and findeth no cure for thy daughter—­dying of terror beside him.”

“It is a base slander!” cried old Girolamo, trembling with anger and fear.  “Never was wife more beloved and petted!  Marcantonio hath no thought, save for Marina and Venice!”

“Ay, ‘for Marina and Venice,’” was the scornful answer, “but Venice first.  Splendor and gifts and the pleasing of every whim, if he could but guess it—­gold for her asking, and her palace no better than a cross for her dwelling; for the one thing she needeth for her peace and life he giveth not!”

“What meanest thou?” cried Girolamo, furiously.  “Hath he not spent a fortune on physicians—­sparing nothing, save to torment her no more, since their skill is but weariness to her!  She is eating her heart out for this quarrel with Rome—­which no man may help, and it is but foolishness for women to meddle with; and she hath ever been too much under priestly sway.  Why earnest thou hither this night?”

“For this cause and for no other,” said Piero solemnly, “that thou mightest find me, if need should be for any service to her.  And to swear to thee, by the Madonna and every saint of Venice, that I would give my life for her!”

But old Girolamo grew the angrier for Piero’s professions of loyalty.  “Shall her father do less than thou?” he questioned, wrathfully.  “On the morrow will I go to her, and leave her no more until she forgets.”