ed surprise. She had not known what his face would be like; she had scarcely had time to think of it since the strange news had been brought her, a few hours before.
"He will be kind to thee," the mother said at length with conviction, yet with a sigh, as if dissatisfied.
Caterina meanwhile, in the simple straight blue robe of a young Venetian maiden, her dimpled throat encircled with the pearls that had been the ransom of a kingdom, stood turning her miniature from side to side, catching the sunlight on the jewels and the face, with the pleasure of a child in a new and splendid toy--for it was all beautiful together. "He is charming--charming, my King!" she repeated.
But a shadow had crept into her mother's eyes. "It is a face that an artist might paint for his pleasure," she said with hesitation, as if seeking expression for some vague fear that haunted her; "I pray that he may make thee happy, carina; that he may be good and--and--noble."
"'Noble!'" cried Marco Cornaro,