When the first faint flush of dawn was waking in the east, the fair, sweet face of Marina of Murano was outlined for the last time, vague as some dream memory, against the deep shadows of the interior, between the quaint columns that framed her window.

Birds were twittering in the vines of the pergola not far away; honeysuckles were pouring forth their fragrant morning oblations; and the salt sea-breeze wafted her its invigorating breath as the early tide, with slow, increasing motion, brimmed the channels that wound through the marshes on the borders of Murano and overflowed till the lagoon was a broad, unbroken vista of silver-gray, in whose shimmer and radiance, when the tide was at its full, the morning stars died out. But still they glistened dimly in the twilight of the sky to which she raised her questioning, believing eyes. Life was always beautiful to her loving soul; for when the shadows held a meaning deeper than she could solve, her answer was faith; and now, that her new joy was to grow out of a deep solitariness for the father so tenderly beloved, it was he who upheld her courage.

“Life may not be,” he said, “without some shadow; this is the shade of thine, which, without it, were too bright. Heaven hath some purpose in its sending, but not that it should darken our eyes to miss the joy.”

“The day will be o’er-lonely in this home, my father.”

“Nay, Marina, let love suffice; so shall we be always together! Shall I not go to thee? And thou wilt come to me, bringing thy new interests and holding thy dear heart ever pure and loyal to Venice, and thy home, and thy God not forgetting. For thou hast chosen with thy whole heart, my daughter?” since she had not answered. “Thou dost not fear thyself?”

“Dearest father,” she had said, hiding her face in his tender embrace, “all of my heart which is not thine is wholly his only my happiness is too great.”

“Nay, daughter, since it is of God’s own sending; take all the joy and grieve not.”

“Only at leaving thee.”

“I would not keep thee here, to leave thee mourning and alone when my days are closed.”

“Father!”

“Not to sadden thee, my child, but to show thee that life is linked to life God wills it so. Thou and I are bound to that which has been and to that which is to be. We do not stand alone to choose. The sweetness of our life together should make it easier for me to yield thee to the fuller life which calleth thee. We must each bear our part in the beauty of the whole. For perfect love, there must be sacrifice.”

She was thinking of these things as she stood in the gray dawn waiting for the beauty of the on-coming day, quite alone with her thoughts and with her God, the giver of this beauty; and often as she had stood there with her morning offering of trust and adoration, never before had the day-dawn seemed so full of mystery and promise, nor the new life which the morning held within its keeping so full of hope and beauty. The very tide, flowing round her island home, brought thoughts of her home that was to be, as it swept through the channels of the City of the Sea, past the palace where her lover was waiting, bringing murmurs and messages of liquid harmony. The marsh grasses swayed and yielded to its flow, lending new depths of color to the water-bed, as they bowed beneath the masterful current so the difficulties which had seemed to beset their hopes had been vanquished by the resistless tide of his love and constancy.

The stars were lost in the deep gray-blue of the sky; a solemn stillness, like the presage of some divine event, seemed for a moment to hold the pulses of the universe; then a soft rose crept into the shimmer of the water and crested the snows on the distant Euganean Hills, the transient, many-tinted glory of the east reflected itself in opal lights upon the silver sea, then suddenly swept the landscape in one dazzling glow of gold and the joy-bells rang out. For to-day a festa had been granted in Murano.

Then, wrapping herself closely in the soft folds of her gray mantle, falling Madonna-wise from her head and shrouding her figure, she glided for the last time over the ponte and down past the sleeping homes of Murano; for it was yet early for matins, and she would have the Madonna all to herself as she knelt with her heart full of tenderness for the dear life this day should merge in that other which beckoned her with joyous anticipation yet stilled to serenity by the golden glory and promise of the dawn, and the beautiful, self-sacrificing, upholding faith of the great-hearted Girolamo.

He had followed her and folded her passionately to his heart, as she crossed the threshold of their home on her way to San Donato. “I must be first,” he said, “to bless thee on thy bridal day. Fret thee not, for thou art bidden to a mission, since thou goest forth from the people to the highest circle of the nobles. And love alone hath bidden and drawn thee. Forget it not, Marina! So shall a blessing go with thee and rest upon thee!”

She had brought a gift to the Madonna of San Donato an exquisite altar lamp of ivory and silver and from the flowers which she had laid upon the altar while she knelt in prayer, she gathered some to scatter over the grave of the tiny Zuane.

When Marina returned slowly through the little square, Murano was awake; the painted sails of the fishing-boats were tacking in the breeze, the activities of the simple homes had commenced, women with their water-jugs were chatting round the well, detaining little ones clinging to the fringes of the tawny mantles which hung below their waists; a few stopped her with greetings; here and there a child ran to her shyly their mothers, from the low cottage doorways, calling to them that “the donzel Marina had given them festa.”

Yes, there was to be festa in Murano. Girolamo had obtained from the Senate the grace of providing it. For now, since his daughter would have no need of the gold which his industry had brought him, he might spend it lavishly on her wedding day to gladden the hearts of the people whom she was leaving; for to him this bridal had a deeply consecrated meaning which divested it of half its sadness.

The workmen of Murano were to have holiday, and a great feast was spread for them by Girolamo in the long exhibition hall of the stabilimenti, for which it had been needful to procure permission of the Senate; but for once it suited well the humor of this august and autocratic body that one of the people should, for a day, make himself great among them. Thus for the inhabitants of Murano men, women, and children there was a welcome waiting the day long in the house of the bride, where they should come to take her bounty and shower their blessings; for this time only Murano had no voice for critica it was too busy in congratulation.

When Marina reached her home she found it garlanded from column to column with festal wreaths of green, while the maidens from the village still lingered, veiling the walls between the windows with delicate frosts of fruit-bloom from the gardens of Mazzorbo. And closely following this village tribute came a priest from San Donato with the band of white-robed nuns who formed the choir of the Matrice, bearing perfumes of incense and benediction for the home of the bride, that all who passed beneath its portal, going out or coming in, might carry blessing with their steps.

In Venice also there were joy-bells ringing; and to overflowing tables, spread in the water-storey of the Ca’ Giustiniani, the people of Venice were freely bidden by silken banners floating legends of welcome above the open doorway. But now the expectant people were thronging the Piazza; the fondamenta along the Riva was alive with color, balconies were brilliant with draperies, windows were glowing with vivid shawls, rugs, brocades tossed out to lean upon in the splendor that became a fête; above them the spaces were crowded with enthusiastic spectators in holiday dress; the children of the populace, shouting, ecstatic, ubiquitous, swarmed on the quay below.

The splendor of the pageant which brought a bride from Murano to the highest patrician circle of the Republic to that house which held its patent of nobility from those days of the seventh century when an ancestor had ruled as tribune over one of the twelve Venetian isles was long remembered, almost as a royal wedding fête, and for days before and after it was the talk of Venice.

They were coming over the water to the sound of the people’s native songs and the echo of their laughter, the young men and maidens of Murano, in barks that were wreathed with garlands and brilliant with the play of color that the Venetians love.

“Maridite, maridite, donzela,
Che dona maridada e sempre bela;
Maridite finche la fogia e verde,
Perche la zoventu presto se perde."

By the port of the Lido many a royal pageant had entered into Venice, but never before had such a procession started from the shores of Murano; it made one feel fête-like only to see the bissoni, those great boats with twelve oars, each from a stabilimento of Murano, wreathed for the fête, each merchant master at its head, robed in his long, black, fur-trimmed gown and wearing his heavy golden chain, the workmen tossing blossoms back over the water to greet the bride, the rowers chanting in cadence to their motion:

“Belina sei, e’l ciel te benedissa,
Che in dove che ti passi l’erba nasse!"

A cry rang down the Canal Grande from the gondoliers of the Ca’ Giustiniani, who were waiting this sign to start their own train from the palazzo; for the bridal gondolas were coming in sight, with felzi of damask, rose, and blue, embroidered with emblems of the Giustiniani, bearing the noble maidens who had been chosen for the household of the Lady Marina, each flower-like and charming under her gauzy veil of tenderest coloring. It was indeed a rare vision to the populace, these young patrician beauties whose faces never, save in most exceptional fêtes, had been seen unveiled beyond their mother’s drawing-rooms, floating toward them in a diaphanous mist which turned their living loveliness into a dream.

The shout of the Giustiniani was echoed from gondola to gondola of the waiting throng, from the gondoliers of all the nobles who followed in their wake, from the housetops, the balconies, the fondamenta, mingled with the words of the favorite folk-song:

“Belo ze el mare, e bela la marina!"

It was like a fairy dream as the bridal procession came floating toward San Marco, in the brilliant golden sunshine, between the blue of the cloudless sky and the blue of the mirroring sea, each gondola garlanded with roses, its silver dolphins flashing in the light, and in the midst of them the bark that bore the bride. The stately pall of snowy damask, fringed with silver, swept almost to the water’s breast, behind the felze of azure velvet, where, beside her father, sat the bride, in robe of brocaded silver shimmering like the sea a subtle perfume of orange blossoms heralding her advance.

Once more the shout went up the quaint love-song of the people

“Belo ze el mare, e bela la marina!”

and then a breathless silence fell, for the bark of the ministering priest of San Donato had taken the lead, the white-robed nuns of the Matrice grouped about him, chanting as they approached some ancient wedding canticles of benediction. The bissoni parted and came no further, having brought their maiden from Murano with every sign of love and honor; the barges of the people fell back behind them, and through their ranks the bridal gondolas followed the bark of the priest of San Donato to the steps of the Piazzetta, where the train of the Giustiniani, in a magnificence that was well-nigh royal, had just disembarked, and Marcantonio stood bareheaded among the nobles to receive his bride.

But it was only for a moment of recognition in the sight of the thronging people, for messengers were arriving with greetings from the Doge, which this bride, whom the Senate had taken from the people to bestow upon a noble, must receive from the lips of the Prince himself before the wedding ceremony should take place; so the train of Giustiniani, with all the nobles of Venice who, from immemorial custom, had come together to witness and rejoice over this great event in the life of one of their number entered San Marco by the great doors of the Piazza; while the bride, obeying the gracious summons of the Doge, passed through the gate of the Ducal Palace on the seaside, into the great court where the Signoria were descending the Giant’s Stairway on their passage to the ducal chapel.

The ceremony of presentation to the Serenissimo was quickly over, and the bride and her maidens, with Girolamo Magagnati, in sign of the Prince’s favor, followed the Doge and suite into the golden looms and shifting twilights of this place of symbolism and wonder, where the vast throng waited in a solemn hush.

The gloom was broken by countless tongues of flame from lamps of silver and alabaster burning in the farther chapels, while wandering lights streaming through the openings of the dome filled it with wonderful waves of color only half-revealing the treasures of ivory and jewels and precious marbles and mosaics, wrought with texts and symbols, but wholly making felt the mystery and beauty. The vague perfume of those faint mists of floating incense, crossing and recrossing the scattered rays of sunshine, mingled with the fragrance of the orange blossoms from which the light tread of the bride-maidens seemed to crush a breath of benediction.

Coming out of the sunlight into this still, beautiful, holy place the chant sweet and sacred accompanying her steps, with the Cross repeated again and again in the heights of the domes, with the dear familiar form of the Mother Mary on every side lifting adoring eyes to the crowning figure of the Christ, while the saints who graciously leaned to her from their golden backgrounds in the great vaulted spaces above recalled the legends inseparably linked with their intimate friendly faces and brought back the atmosphere of her own Matrice her mother church this maiden of Murano felt suddenly at home.

The Patriarch with his pomp, the Signoria and Senate in their robes of state, the nobles and the pageant were all forgotten. In the sacramental lights of the ceremonial candles of the great altar, flashing back from the marvelous Pala d’Oro, she saw only Marco waiting for her to whom her father, beloved and trusted, was leading her with her heart’s consent.

How should she falter on the path from love to love!