The inquisitors were struck with the quiet enthusiasm of the Bravo, and surprise once more held them in suspense. At length the elder of the three resumed the examination.

"Wilt thou impart the manner of this escape, Jacopo?" he demanded. "Remember, thou hast still a life to redeem!"

"Signore, it is scarce worth the trouble. But to do your pleasure, nothing shall be concealed."

Jacopo then recounted in simple and undisguised terms, the entire means employed by Don Camillo in effecting his escape—his hopes, his disappointments, and his final success. In this narrative nothing was concealed but the place in which the ladies had temporarily taken refuge, and the name of Gelsomina. Even the attempt of Giacomo Gradenigo on the life of the Neapolitan, and the agency of the Hebrew, were fully exposed. None listened to this explanation so intently as the young husband. Notwithstanding his public duties, his pulses quickened as the prisoner dwelt on the different chances of the lovers, and when their final union was proclaimed, he felt his heart bound with delight. On the other hand, his more practised colleagues heard the detail of the Bravo with politic coolness. The effect of all factitious systems is to render the feelings subservient to expediency. Convention and fiction take place of passion and truth, and like the Mussulman with his doctrine of predestination, there is no one more acquiescent in defeat, than he who has obtained an advantage in the face of nature and justice; his resignation being, in common, as perfect as his previous arrogance was insupportable. The two old senators perceived at once that Don Camillo and his fair companion were completely beyond the reach of their power, and they instantly admitted the wisdom of making a merit of necessity. Having no farther occasion for Jacopo, they summoned the keepers, and dismissed him to his cell.

"It will be seemly to send letters of congratulation to the cardinal secretary, on the union of his nephew with so rich an heiress of our city," said the Inquisitor of the Ten, as the door closed on the retiring group. "So great an interest as that of the Neapolitan should be propitiated."

"But should he urge the state's resistance to his hopes?" returned the Signor Soranzo, in feeble objection to so bold a scheme.

"We will excuse it as the act of a former council. These misconceptions are the unavoidable consequences of the caprices of liberty, Signore. The steed that ranges the plains in the freedom of nature, cannot be held to perfect command, like the dull beast that draws the car. This is the first of your sittings in the Three; but experience will show you that excellent as we are in system, we are not quite perfect in practice. This is grave matter of the young Gradenigo, Signori!"

"I have long known his unworthiness," returned his more aged colleague. "It is a thousand pities that so honorable and so noble a patrician should have produced so ignoble a child. But neither the state nor the city can tolerate assassination."

"Would it were less, frequent!" exclaimed the Signore Soranzo, in perfect sincerity.

"Would it were, indeed! There are hints in our secret information, which tend to confirm the charge of Jacopo, though long experience has taught us to put full faith in his reports."

"How! Is Jacopo, then, an agent of the police!"

"Of that more at our leisure, Signor Soranzo. At present we must look to this attempt on the life of one protected by our laws."

The Three then entered into a serious discussion of the case of the two delinquents. Venice, like all despotic governments, had the merit of great efficiency in its criminal police, when it was disposed to exert it. Justice was sure enough in those instances in which the interests of the government itself were not involved, or in which bribery could not well be used. As to the latter, through the jealousy of the state, and the constant agency of those who were removed from temptation, by being already in possession of a monopoly of benefits, it was by no means as frequent as in some other communities in which the affluent were less interested. The Signor Soranzo had now a fair occasion for the exercise of his generous feelings. Though related to the house of Gradenigo, he was not backward in decrying the conduct of its heir. His first impulses were to make a terrible example of the accused, and to show the world that no station brought with it, in Venice, impunity for crime. From this view of the case, however, he was gradually enticed by his companions, who reminded him that the law commonly made a distinction between the intention and the execution of an offence. Driven from his first determination by the cooler heads of his colleagues, the young inquisitor next proposed that the case should be sent to the ordinary tribunals for judgment. Instances had not been wanting in which the aristocracy of Venice sacrificed one of its body to the seemliness of justice; for when such cases were managed with discretion, they rather strengthened than weakened their ascendency. But the present crime was known to be too common, to permit so lavish an expenditure of their immunities, and the old inquisitors opposed the wish of their younger colleague with great plausibility, and with some show of reason. It was finally resolved that they should themselves decide on the case.

The next question was the degree of punishment. The wily senior of the council began by proposing a banishment for a few months, for Giacomo Gradenigo was already obnoxious to the anger of the state on more accounts than one. But this punishment was resisted by the Signor Soranzo with the ardor of an uncorrupted and generous mind. The latter gradually prevailed, his companions taking care that their compliance should have the air of a concession to his arguments. The result of all this management was, that the heir of Gradenigo was condemned to ten years' retirement in the provinces, and Hosea to banishment for life. Should the reader be of opinion that strict justice was not meted out to the offenders, he should remember, that the Hebrew ought to be glad to have escaped as he did.

"We must not conceal this judgment, nor its motive," observed the Inquisitor of the Ten, when the affair was concluded. "The state is never a loser for letting its justice be known."

"Nor for its exercise, I should hope," returned the Signor Soranzo. "As our affairs are ended for the night, is it your pleasures, Signori, that we return to our palaces?"

"Nay, we have this matter of Jacopo."

"Him may we now, surely, turn over to the ordinary tribunals!"

"As you may decide, Signori; is this your pleasure?"

Both the others bowed assent, and the usual preparations were made for departure.

Ere the two seniors of the Council left the palace, however, they held a long and secret conference together. The result was a private order to the criminal judge, and then they returned, each to his own abode, like men who had the approbation of their own consciences.

On the other hand, the Signor Soranzo hastened to his own luxurious and happy dwelling. For the first time in his life he entered it with a distrust of himself. Without being conscious of the reason, he felt sad, for he had taken the first step in that tortuous and corrupting path, which eventually leads to the destruction of all those generous and noble sentiments, which can only flourish apart from the sophistry and fictions of selfishness. He would have rejoiced to have been as light of heart as at the moment he handed his fair-haired partner into the gondola that night; but his head had pressed the pillow for many hours, before sleep drew a veil over the solemn trifling with the most serious of your duties, in which he had been an actor.



CHAPTER XXIX.

"Art thou not guilty! No, indeed, I am not." ROGERS.

The following morning brought the funeral of Antonio. The agents of the police took the precaution to circulate in the city, that the Senate permitted this honor to the memory of the old fisherman, on account of his success in the regatta, and as some atonement for his unmerited and mysterious death. All the men of the Lagunes were assembled in the square at the appointed hour, in decent guise, flattered with the notice that their craft received, and more than half disposed to forget their former anger in the present favor. Thus easy is it for those who are elevated above their fellow-creatures by the accident of birth, or by the opinions of a factitious social organization, to repair the wrongs they do in deeds, by small concessions of their conventional superiority.

Masses were still chanted for the soul of old Antonio before the altar of St. Mark. Foremost among the priests was the good Carmelite, who had scarce known hunger or fatigue, in his pious desire to do the offices of the church in behalf of one whose fate he might be said to have witnessed. His zeal, however, in that moment of excitement passed unnoticed by all, but those whose business it was to suffer no unusual display of character, nor any unwonted circumstance to have place, without attracting their suspicion. As the Carmelite finally withdrew from the altar, previously to the removal of the body, he felt the sleeve of his robe slightly drawn aside, and yielding to the impulse, he quickly found himself among the columns of that gloomy church, alone with a stranger.

"Father, thou hast shrived many a parting soul!" observed, rather than asked, the other.

"It is the duty of my holy office, son."

"The state will note thy services; there will be need of thee when the body of this fisherman is committed to the earth."

The monk shuddered, but making the sign of the cross, he bowed his pale face, in signification of his readiness to discharge the duty. At that moment the bearers lifted the body, and the procession issued upon the great square. First marched the usual lay underlings of the cathedral, who were followed by those who chanted the offices of the occasion. Among the latter the Carmelite hastened to take his station. Next came the corpse, without a coffin, for that is a luxury of the grave even now unknown to the Italians of old Antonio's degree. The body was clad in the holiday vestments of a fisherman, the hands and feet being naked. A cross lay on the breast; the grey hairs were blowing about in the air, and, in frightful adornment of the ghastliness of death, a bouquet of flowers was placed upon the mouth. The bier was rich in gilding and carving, another melancholy evidence of the lingering wishes and false direction of human vanity.

Next to this characteristic equipage of the dead walked a lad, whose brown cheek, half-naked body, and dark, roving eye, announced the grandson of the fisherman. Venice knew when to yield gracefully, and the boy was liberated unconditionally from the galleys, in pity, as it was whispered, for the untimely fate of his parent. There was the aspiring look, the dauntless spirit, and the rigid honesty of Antonio, in the bearing of the lad; but these qualities were now smothered by a natural grief; and, as in the case of him whose funeral escort he followed, something obscured by the rude chances of his lot. From time to time the bosom of the generous boy heaved, as they marched along the quay, taking the route of the arsenal; and there were moments in which his lips quivered, grief threatening to overcome his manhood.

Still not a tear wetted his cheek, until the body disappeared from his view. Then nature triumphed, and straying from out the circle, he took a seat apart and wept, as one of his years and simplicity would be apt to weep, at finding himself a solitary wanderer in the wilderness of the world.

Thus terminated the incident of Antonio Vecchio, the fisherman, whose name soon ceased to be mentioned in that city of mysteries, except on the Lagunes, where the men of his craft long vaunted his merit with the net, and the manner in which he bore away the prize from the best oars of Venice. His descendant lived and toiled, like others of his condition, and we will here dismiss him, by saying, that he so far inherited the native qualities of his ancestor, that he forbore to appear, a few hours later, in the crowd, which curiosity and vengeance drew into the Piazzetta.

Father Anselmo took boat to return to the canals, and when he landed at the quay of the smaller square it was with the hope that he would now be permitted to seek those of whose fate he was still ignorant, but in whom he felt so deep an interest. Not so, however. The individual who had addressed him in the cathedral was, apparently, in waiting, and knowing the uselessness as well as the danger of remonstrance, where the state was concerned, the Carmelite permitted himself to be conducted whither his guide pleased. They took a devious route, but it led them to the public prisons. Here the priest was shown into the keeper's apartment, where he was desired to wait a summons from his companion.

Our business now leads us to the cell of Jacopo. On quitting the presence of the Three, he had been remanded to his gloomy room, where he passed the night like others similarly situated. With the appearance of the dawn the Bravo had been led before those who ostensibly discharged the duties of his judges. We say ostensibly, for justice never yet was pure under a system in which the governors have an interest in the least separated from that of the governed; for in all cases which involve the ascendency of the existing authorities, the instinct of self-preservation is as certain to bias their decision as that of life is to cause man to shun danger. If such is the fact in countries of milder sway, the reader will easily believe in its existence in a state like that of Venice. As may have been anticipated, those who sat in judgment on Jacopo had their instructions, and the trial that he sustained was rather a concession to appearances than a homage to the laws. All the records were duly made, witnesses were examined, or said to be examined, and care was had to spread the rumor in the city that the tribunals were at length occupied in deciding on the case of the extraordinary man who had so long been permitted to exercise his bloody profession with impunity even in the centre of the canals. During the morning the credulous tradesmen were much engaged in recounting to each other the different flagrant deeds that, in the course of the last three or four years, had been imputed to his hand. One spoke of the body of a stranger that had been found near the gaming-houses frequented by those who visited Venice. Another recalled the fate of the young noble who had fallen by the assassin's blow even on the Rialto, and another went into the details of a murder which had deprived a mother of her only son, and the daughter of a patrician of her love. In this manner, as one after another contributed to the list, a little group, assembled on the quay, enumerated no less than five-and-twenty lives which were believed to have been taken by the hand of Jacopo, without including the vindictive and useless assassination of him whose funeral rites had just been celebrated. Happily, perhaps, for his peace of mind, the subject of all these rumors and of the maledictions which they drew upon his head, knew nothing of either. Before his judges he had made no defence whatever, firmly refusing to answer their interrogatories.

"Ye know what I have done, Messires," he said haughtily. "And what I have not done, ye know. As for yourselves, look to your own interests."

When again in his cell he demanded food, and ate tranquilly, though with moderation. Every instrument which could possibly be used against his life was then removed, his irons were finally and carefully examined, and he was left to his thoughts. It was in this situation that the prisoner heard the approach of footsteps to his cell. The bolts turned, and the door opened. The form of a priest appeared between him and the day. The latter, however, held a lamp, which, as the cell was again shut and secured, he placed on the low shelf that held the jug and loaf of the prisoner.

Jacopo received his visitor calmly, but with the deep respect of one who reverenced his body office. He arose, crossed himself, and advanced as far as the chains permitted, to do him honor.

"Thou art welcome, father," he said; "in cutting me off from earth, the Council, I see, does not wish to cut me off from God."

"That would exceed their power, son. He who died for them, shed his blood for thee, if thou wilt not reject his grace. But—Heaven knows I say it with reluctance! thou art not to think that one of thy sins, Jacopo, can have hope without deep and heartfelt repentance!"

"Father, have any?"

The Carmelite started, for the point of the question, and the tranquil tones of the speaker, had a strange effect in such an interview.

"Thou art not what I had supposed thee, Jacopo!" he answered. "Thy mind is not altogether obscured in darkness, and thy crimes have been committed against the consciousness of their enormity."

"I fear this is true, reverend monk."

"Thou must feel their weight in the poignancy of grief—in the—" Father Anselmo stopped, for a sob at that moment apprised them that they were not alone. Moving aside, in a little alarm, the action discovered the figure of the shrinking Gelsomina, who had entered the cell, favored by the keepers, and concealed by the robes of the Carmelite. Jacopo groaned when he beheld her form, and turning away, he leaned against the wall.

"Daughter, why art thou here—and who art thou?" demanded the monk.

"'Tis the child of the principal keeper," said Jacopo, perceiving that she was unable to answer, "one known to me, in my frequent adventures in this prison."

The eye of Father Anselmo wandered from one to the other. At first its expression was severe, and then, as it saw each countenance in turn, it became less unkind, until it softened at the exhibition of their mutual agony.

"This comes of human passions!" he said, in a tone between consolation and reproof. "Such are ever the fruits of crime."

"Father," said Jacopo, with earnestness, "I may deserve the word; but the angels in Heaven are scarce purer than this weeping girl!"

"I rejoice to hear it. I will believe thee, unfortunate man, and glad am I that thy soul is relieved from the sin of having corrupted one so youthful."

The bosom of the prisoner heaved, while Gelsomina shuddered.

"Why hast thou yielded to the weakness of nature, and entered the cell?" asked the good Carmelite, endeavoring to throw into his eye a reproof, that the pathos and kindness of his tones contradicted. "Didst thou know the character of the man thou loved?"

"Immaculate Maria!" exclaimed the girl—"no—no—no—no!"

"And now that thou hast learned the truth, surely thou art no longer the victim of wayward fancies!"

The gaze of Gelsomina was bewildered, but anguish prevailed over all other expression. She bowed her head, partly in shame, but more in sorrow, without answering.

"I know not, children, what end this interview can answer," continued the monk. "I am sent hither to receive the last confession of a Bravo, and surely, one who has so much cause to condemn the deception he has practised, would not wish to hear the details of such a life?"

"No—no—no—" murmured Gelsomina again, enforcing her words with a wild gesture of the hand.

"It is better, father, that she should believe me all that her fancy can imagine as monstrous," said Jacopo, in a thick voice: "she will then learn to hate my memory."

Gelsomina did not speak, but the negative gesture was repeated franticly.

"The heart of the poor child hath been sorely touched," said the Carmelite, with concern. "We must not treat so tender a flower rudely. Hearken to me, daughter, and consult thy reason, more than thy weakness."

"Question her not, father; let her curse me, and depart."

"Carlo!" shrieked Gelsomina.

A long pause succeeded. The monk perceived that human passion was superior to his art, and that the case must be left to time; while the prisoner maintained within himself a struggle more fierce than any which it had yet been his fate to endure. The lingering desires of the world conquered, and he broke silence.

"Father," he said, advancing to the length of his chain, and speaking both solemnly and with dignity, "I had hoped—I had prayed that this unhappy but innocent creature might have turned from her own weakness with loathing, when she came to know that the man she loved was a Bravo. But I did injustice to the heart of woman! Tell me, Gelsomina, and as thou valuest thy salvation deceive me not—canst thou look at me without horror?"

Gelsomina trembled, but she raised her eyes, and smiled on him as the weeping infant returns the earnest and tender regard of its mother. The effect of that glance on Jacopo was so powerful that his sinewy frame shook, until the wondering Carmelite heard the clanking of his chains.

"'Tis enough," he said, struggling to command himself, "Gelsomina, thou shalt hear my confession. Thou hast long been mistress of one great secret, none other shall be hid from thee."

"Antonio!" gasped the girl. "Carlo! Carlo! what had that aged fisherman done that thy hand should seek his life?"

"Antonio!" echoed the monk; "dost thou stand charged with his death, my son?"

"It is the crime for which I am condemned to die."

The Carmelite sank upon the stool of the prisoner, and sat motionless, looking with an eye of horror from the countenance of the unmoved Jacopo to that of his trembling companion. The truth began to dawn upon him, though his mind was still enveloped in the web of Venetian mystery.

"Here is some horrible mistake!" he whispered. "I will hasten to thy judges and undeceive them."

The prisoner smiled calmly, as he reached out a hand to arrest the zealous movement of the simple Carmelite.

"'Twill be useless," he said; "it is the pleasure of the Three that I should suffer for old Antonio's death."

"Then wilt thou die unjustly! I am a witness that he fell by other hands."

"Father!" shrieked Gelsomina, "oh! repeat the words; say that Carlo could not do the cruel deed!"

"Of that murder, at least, he is innocent."

"Gelsomina!" said Jacopo, struggling to stretch forth his arms towards her, and yielding to a full heart, "and of every other!"

A cry of wild delight burst from the lips of the girl, who in the next instant lay senseless on his bosom.

We draw the veil before the scene that followed. Near an hour must pass before we can again remove it. The cell then exhibited a group in its centre, over which the lamp shed its feeble light, marking the countenances of the different personages with strong tints and deep shadows, in a manner to bring forth all the force of Italian expression. The Carmelite was seated on the stool, while Jacopo and Gelsomina knelt beside him. The former of the two last was speaking earnestly, while his auditors caught each syllable that issued from his lips, as if interest in his innocence were still stronger than curiosity.

"I have told you, father," he continued, "that a false accusation of having wronged the customs brought my unhappy parent under the Senate's displeasure, and that he was many years an innocent inhabitant of one of these accursed cells, while we believed him in exile among the islands. At length we succeeded in getting such proof before the Council, as ought to have satisfied the patricians of their own injustice. I am afraid that when men pretend that the chosen of the earth exercise authority, they are not ready to admit their errors, for it would be proof against the merit of their system. The Council delayed a weary time to do us justice—so long, that my poor mother sank under her sufferings. My sister, a girl of Gelsomina's years, followed her soon—for the only reason given by the state, when pressed for proof, was the suspicion that one who sought her love was guilty of the crime for which my unhappy father perished."

"And did they refuse to repair their injustice?" exclaimed the Carmelite.

"They could not do it, father, without publishing their fallibility. The credit of certain great patricians was concerned, and I fear there is a morality in these Councils which separates the deed of the man from those of the senators, putting policy before justice."

"This may be true, son; for when a community is grounded on false principles, its interests must, of necessity, be maintained by sophisms. God will view this act with a different eye!"

"Else would the world be hopeless, father! After years of prayers and interest, I was, under a solemn oath of secresy, admitted to my father's cell. There was happiness in being able to administer to his wants—in hearing his voice—in kneeling for his blessing. Gelsomina was then a child approaching womanhood. I knew not their motive, though after thoughts left it no secret, and I was permitted to see my father through her means. When they believed that I was sufficiently caught in their toils, I was led into that fatal error which has destroyed my hopes, and brought me to this condition."

"Thou hast affirmed thy innocence, my son!"

"Innocent of shedding blood, father, but not of lending myself to their artifices. I will not weary you, holy monk, with the history of the means by which they worked upon my nature. I was sworn to serve the state, as its secret agent, for a certain time. The reward was to be my father's freedom. Had they taken me in the world, and in my senses, their arts would not have triumphed; but a daily witness of the sufferings of him who had given me life, and who was now all that was left me in the world, they were too strong for my weakness, They whispered to me of racks and wheels, and I was shown paintings of dying martyrs, that I might understand the agony they could inflict. Assassinations were frequent, and called for the care of the police; in short, father"—Jacopo hid his face in the dress of Gelsomina—"I consented to let them circulate such tales as might draw the eye of the public on me. I need not add, that he who lends himself to his own infamy will soon attain his object."

"With what end was this miserable falsehood invented?"

"Father, I was applied to as a public Bravo, and my reports, in more ways than one, answered their designs, That I saved some lives is at least a consolation for the error or crime into which I fell!"

"I understand thee, Jacopo. I have heard that Venice did not hesitate to use the ardent and brave in this manner. Holy St. Mark! can deceit like this be practised under the sanction of thy blessed name!"

"Father, it is, and more. I had other duties connected with the interests of the Republic, and of course I was practised in their discharge. The citizens marvelled that one like me should go at large, while the vindictive and revengeful took the circumstance as a proof of address. When rumor grew too strong for appearances, the Three took measures to direct it to other things; and when it grew too faint for their wishes it was fanned. In short, for three long and bitter years did I pass the life of the damned—sustained only by the hope of liberating my father, and cheered by the love of this innocent!"

"Poor Jacopo, thou art to be pitied! I will remember thee in my prayers."

"And thou, Gelsomina?"

The keeper's daughter did not answer. Her ears had drunk in each syllable that fell from his lips, and now that the whole truth began to dawn on her mind, there was a bright radiance in her eye that appeared almost supernatural to those who witnessed it.

"If I have failed in convincing thee, Gelsomina," continued Jacopo, "that I am not the wretch I seemed, would that I had been dumb!"

She stretched a hand towards him, and dropping her head on his bosom, wept.

"I see all thy temptations, poor Carlo," she said, softly; "I know how strong was thy love for thy father."

"Dost thou forgive me, dearest Gelsomina, for the deception on thy innocence?"

"There was no deception; I believed thee a son ready to die for his father, and I find thee what I thought thee."

The good Carmelite regarded this scene with eyes of interest and indulgence; tears wetted his cheeks.

"Thy affection for each other, children," he said, "is such as angels might indulge. Has thy intercourse been of long date?"

"It has lasted years, father."

"And thou, daughter, hast been with Jacopo in the cell of his parent?"

"I was his constant guide on these holy errands, father."

The monk mused deeply. After a silence of several minutes he proceeded to the duties of his holy office. Receiving the spiritual confession of the prisoner he gave the absolution with a fervor which proved how deeply his sympathies were enlisted in behalf of the youthful pair. This duty done, he gave Gelsomina his hand, and there was a mild confidence in his countenance as he took leave of Jacopo.

"We quit thee," he said; "but be of heart, son. I cannot think that even Venice will be deaf to a tale like thine! Trust first to thy God, and believe that neither this faithful girl nor I will abandon thee without an effort."

Jacopo received this assurance like one accustomed to exist in extreme jeopardy. The smile which accompanied his own adieux had in it as much of incredulity as of melancholy. It was, however, full of the joy of a lightened heart.



CHAPTER XXX.

"Your heart is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to accuse Appearances; and views a criminal In innocence's shadow." WERNER.

The Carmelite and Gelsomina found the keepers in waiting, and when they quitted the cell its door was secured for the night. As they had no further concerns with the jailors they passed on unquestioned. But when the end of the corridor which led towards the apartments of the keeper was reached, the monk stopped.

"Art thou equal to a great effort, in order that the innocent shall not die?" he suddenly asked, though with a solemnity that denoted the influence of a high and absorbing motive.

"Father!"

"I would know if thy love for the youth can sustain thee in a trying scene; for without this effort he will surely perish!"

"I would die to save Jacopo a pang!"

"Deceive not thyself, daughter! Canst thou forget thy habits; overstep the diffidence of thy years and condition; stand and speak fearlessly in the presence of the great and dreaded?"

"Reverend Carmelite, I speak daily without fear, though not without awe, to one more to be dreaded than any in Venice."

The monk looked in admiration at the gentle being, whose countenance was glowing with the mild resolution of innocence and affection, and he motioned for her to follow.

"We will go, then, before the proudest and the most fearful of earth, should there be occasion," he resumed. "We will do our duty to both parties, to the oppressor and the oppressed, that the sin of omission lie not on our souls."

Father Anselmo, without further explanation, led the obedient girl into that part of the palace which was known to be appropriated to the private uses of the titular head of the Republic.

The jealousy of the Venetian patricians on the subject of their Doge is matter of history. He was, by situation, a puppet in the hands of the nobles, who only tolerated his existence, because the theory of their government required a seeming agent in the imposing ceremonies that formed part of their specious system, and in their intercourse with other states. He dwelt in his palace like the queen-bee in the hive, pampered and honored to the eye, but in truth devoted to the objects of those who alone possess the power to injure, and perhaps we might add, like the insect named, known for consuming more than a usual portion of the fruits of the common industry.

Father Anselmo was indebted to his own decision, and to the confidence of his manner, for reaching the private apartments of a prince, thus secluded and watched. He was permitted to pass by various sentinels, who imagined, from his holy calling and calm step, that he was some friar employed in his usual and privileged office. By this easy, quiet method did the Carmelite and his companion penetrate to the very ante-chamber of the sovereign, a spot that thousands had been defeated in attempting to reach, by means more elaborate.

There were merely two or three drowsy inferior officers of the household in waiting. One arose quickly at the unexpected appearance of these unknown visitors, expressing, by the surprise and the confusion of his eye, the wonder into which he was thrown by so unlooked-for guests.

"His Highness waits for us, I fear?" simply observed Father Anselmo, who had known how to quiet his concern, in a look of passive courtesy.

"Santa Maria! holy father, you should know best, but——"

"We will not lose more time in idle words, son, when there has already been this delay—show us to the closet of his Highness."

"It is forbidden to usher any, unannounced, into the presence——"

"Thou seest this is not an ordinary visit. Go, inform the Doge that the Carmelite he expects, and the youthful maiden, in whom his princely bosom feels so parental an interest, await his pleasure."

"His Highness has then commanded——"

"Tell him, moreover, that time presses; for the hour is near when innocence is condemned to suffer."

The usher was deceived by the gravity and assurance of the monk. He hesitated, and then throwing open a door, he showed the visitors into an inner room, where he requested them to await his return. After this, he went on the desired commission to the closet of his master.

It has already been shown that the reigning Doge, if such a title can be used of a prince who was merely a tool of the aristocracy, was a man advanced in years. He had thrown aside the cares of the day, and, in the retirement of his privacy, was endeavoring to indulge those human sympathies that had so little play in the ordinary duties of his factitious condition, by holding intercourse with the mind of one of the classics of his country. His state was laid aside for lighter ease and personal freedom. The monk could not have chosen a happier moment for his object, since the man was undefended by the usual appliances of his rank, and he was softened by communion with one who had known how to mould and temper the feelings of his readers at will. So entire was the abstraction of the Doge, at the moment, that the usher entered unheeded, and had stood in respectful attention to his sovereign's pleasure, near a minute before he was seen.

"What would'st thou, Marco?" demanded the prince, when his eye rose from the page.

"Signore," returned the officer, using the familiar manner in which those nearest to the persons of princes are permitted to indulge—"here are the reverend Carmelite, and the young girl, in waiting."

"How sayest thou? a Carmelite, and a girl!"

"Signore, the same. Those whom your Highness expects."

"What bold pretence is this!"

"Signore, I do but repeat the words of the monk. 'Tell his Highness,' said the father, 'that the Carmelite he wishes to see, and the young girl in whose happiness his princely bosom feels so parental an interest, await his pleasure.'"

There passed a glow, in which indignation was brighter than shame, over the wasted cheek of the old prince, and his eye kindled.

"And this to me—even in my palace!"

"Pardon, Signore. This is no shameless priest, like so many that disgrace the tonsure. Both monk and girl have innocent and harmless looks, and I do suspect your Highness may have forgotten."

The bright spots disappeared from the prince's cheeks and his eye regained its paternal expression. But age, and experience in his delicate duties, had taught the Doge of Venice caution. He well knew that memory had not failed him, and he at once saw that a hidden meaning lay concealed beneath an application so unusual. There might be a device of his enemies, who were numerous and active, or, in truth, there might be some justifiable motive to warrant the applicant in resorting to a measure so hardy.

"Did the Carmelite say more, good Marco?" he asked, after deep reflection.

"Signore, he said there was great urgency, as the hour was near when the innocent might suffer. I doubt not that he comes with a petition in behalf of some young indiscreet, for there are said to be several young nobles arrested for their follies in the carnival. The female may be a sister disguised."

"Bid one of thy companions come hither; and when I touch my bell, do thou usher these visitors to my presence."

The attendant withdrew, taking care to pass into the antechamber by doors that rendered it unnecessary to show himself too soon to those who expected his return. The second usher quickly made his appearance, and was immediately dispatched in quest of one of the Three, who was occupied with important papers in an adjoining closet. The senator was not slow to obey the summons, for he appeared there as a friend of the prince, having been admitted publicly, and with the customary honors.

"Here are visitors of an unusual character, Signore," said the Doge, rising to receive him whom he had summoned in precaution to himself, "and I would have a witness of their requests."

"Your Highness does well to make us of the Senate share your labors; though if any mistaken opinion of the necessity has led you to conceive it important to call a councillor each time a guest enters the palace——"

"It is well, Signore," mildly interrupted the prince, touching the bell. "I hope my importunity has not deranged you. But here come those I expect."

Father Anselmo and Gelsomina entered the closet together. The first glance convinced the Doge that he received strangers. He exchanged looks with the member of the secret council, and each saw in the other's eye that the surprise was mutual.

When fairly in the presence, the Carmelite threw back his cowl, entirely exposing the whole of his ascetic features; while Gelsomina, awed by the rank of him who received them, shrank abashed, partly concealed by his robes.

"What means this visit?" demanded the prince, whose finger pointed to the shrinking form of the girl, while his eye rested steadily on that of the monk, "and that unusual companion? Neither the hour, nor the mode, is customary."

Father Anselmo stood before the Venetian sovereign for the first time. Accustomed, like all of that region, and more especially in that age, to calculate his chances of success warily, before venturing to disburden his mind, the monk fastened a penetrating look on his interrogator.

"Illustrious prince," he said, "we come petitioners for justice. They who are thus commissioned had need be bold, lest they do their own character, and their righteous office, discredit."

"Justice is the glory of St. Mark, and the happiness of his subjects. Thy course, father, is not according to established rules and wholesome restraints, but it may have its apology—name thy errand."

"There is one in the cells, condemned of the public tribunals, and he must die with the return of day, unless your princely authority interfere to save him."

"One condemned of the tribunals may merit his fate."

"I am the ghostly adviser of the unhappy youth, and in the execution of my sacred office I have learned that he is innocent."

"Didst thou say, condemned of the common judges-father?"

"Sentenced to die, highness, by a decree of the criminal tribunals."

The prince appeared relieved. So long as the affair had been public, there was at least reason to believe he might indulge his love of the species, by listening further, without offence to the tortuous policy of the state. Glancing his eye at the motionless inquisitor, as if to seek approbation, he advanced a step nearer to the Carmelite, with increasing interest in the application.

"By what authority, reverend priest, dost thou impeach the decision of the judges?" he demanded.

"Signore, as I have just said, in virtue of knowledge gained in the exercise of my holy office. He has laid bare his soul to me, as one whose feet were in the grave; and, though offending, like all born of woman, towards his God, he is guiltless as respects the state."

"Thinkest thou, father, that the law would ever reach its victim, were we to listen only to self-accusations? I am old, monk, and have long worn that troublesome cap," pointing to the horned bonnet, which lay near his hand, the symbol of his state, "and in my day, I do not recall the criminal that has not fancied himself the victim of untoward circumstances."

"That men apply this treacherous solace to their consciences, one of my vocation has not to learn. Our chief task is to show the delusion of those, who, while condemning their own sins by words of confession and self-abasement, make a merit of humility; but, Doge of Venice, there is still a virtue in the sacred rite I have this evening been required to perform, which can overcome the mounting of the most exalted spirit. Many attempt to deceive themselves at the confessional, while, by the power of God, few succeed."

"Praised be the blessed mother and the incarnate son, that it is so!" returned the prince, struck by the mild faith of the monk, and crossing himself reverently. "Father, thou hast forgotten to name the condemned?"

"It is a certain Jacopo Frontoni;—a reputed bravo," The start, the changing color, and the glance of the prince of Venice, were full of natural surprise.

"Callest thou the bloodiest stiletto that ever disgraced the city, the weapon of a reputed bravo? The arts of the monster have prevailed over thy experience, monk!—the true confession of such a wretch would be but a history of bloody and revolting crimes."

"I entered his cell with this opinion, but I left it convinced that the public sentiment has done him wrong. If your Highness will deign hear his tale, you will think him a fit subject for your pity, rather than for punishment."

"Of all the criminals of my reign, this is the last in whose favor I could have imagined there was aught to be said!—Speak freely, Carmelite; for curiosity is as strong as wonder."

So truly did the Doge give utterance to his feelings, that he momentarily forgot the presence of the inquisitor, whose countenance might have shown him that the subject was getting to be grave.

The monk ejaculated a thanksgiving, for it was not always easy, in that city of mystery, to bring truth to the ears of the great. When men live under a system of duplicity, more or less of the quality gets interwoven with the habits of the most ingenuous, although they may remain themselves unconscious of the taint. Thus Father Anselmo, as he proceeded with the desired explanation, touched more tenderly on the practices of the state, and used more of reserve in alluding to those usages and opinions, which one of his holy calling and honest nature, under other circumstances, would have fearlessly condemned.

"It may not be known to one of your high condition, sovereign prince," resumed the Carmelite, "that an humble but laborious mechanic of this city, a certain Francesco Frontoni, was long since condemned for frauds against the Republic's revenue. This is a crime St. Mark never fails to visit with his heavy displeasure, for when men place the goods of the world before all other considerations, they mistake the objects which have brought them together in social union."

"Father, thou wert speaking of a certain Francesco Frontoni?"

"Highness, such was his name. The unhappy man had taken into his confidence and friendship, one who, pretending to his daughter's love, might appear to be the master of his secrets. When this false suitor stood on the verge of detection, for offences against the customs, he laid a snare of deception, which, while he was permitted to escape, drew the anger of the state on his too confiding friend. Francesco was condemned to the cells, until he might reveal facts which never had an existence."

"This is a hard fate, reverend friar, could it be but proved!"

"'Tis the evil of secresy and intrigue, great Doge, in managing the common interests!—"

"Hast thou more of this Francesco, monk?"

"His history is short, Signore; for at the age when most men are active in looking to their welfare, he was pining in a prison."

"I remember to have heard of some such accusation; but it occurred in the reign of the last Doge, did it not, father?"

"And he has endured to near the close of the reign of this, Highness!"

"How? The Senate, when apprised of the error of its judgment, was not slow to repair the wrong!"

The monk regarded the prince earnestly, as if he would make certain whether the surprise he witnessed was not a piece of consummate acting. He felt convinced that the affair was one of that class of acts, which, however oppressive, unjust, and destructive of personal happiness, had not sufficient importance to come before them, who govern under systems which care more for their own preservation than for the good of the ruled. "Signor Doge," he said, "the state is discreet in matters that touch its own reputation. There are reasons that I shall not presume to examine, why the cell of poor Francesco was kept closed, long after the death and confession of his accuser left his innocence beyond dispute."

The prince mused, and then he bethought him to consult the countenance of his companion. The marble of the pilaster, against which he leaned, was not more cold and unmoved than the face of the inquisitor. The man had learned to smother every natural impulse in the assumed and factitious duties of his office.

"And what has this case of Francesco to do with the execution of the Bravo?" demanded the Doge, after a pause, in which he had in vain struggled to assume the indifference of his counsellor.

"That I shall leave this prison-keeper's daughter to explain. Stand forth, child, and relate what you know, remembering, if you speak before the Prince of Venice, that you also speak before the King of Heaven!"

Gelsomina trembled, for one of her habits, however supported by her motives, could not overcome a nature so retiring without a struggle. But faithful to her promise, and sustained by her affection for the condemned, she advanced a step, and stood no longer concealed by the robes of the Carmelite.

"Thou art the daughter of the prison-keeper?" asked the prince mildly, though surprise was strongly painted in his eye.

"Highness, we are poor, and we are unfortunate: we serve the state for bread."

"Ye serve a noble master, child. Dost thou know aught of this Bravo?"

"Dread sovereign, they that call him thus know not his heart! One more true to his friends, more faithful to his word, or more suppliant with the saints, than Jacopo Frontoni, is not in Venice!"

"This is a character which art might appropriate, even to a bravo. But we waste the moments. What have these Frontoni in common?"

"Highness, they are father and son. When Jacopo came to be of an age to understand the misfortunes of his family, he wearied the senators with applications in his father's behalf, until they commanded the door of the cell to be secretly opened to a child so pious. I well know, great prince, that they who rule cannot have all-seeing eyes, else could this wrong never have happened. But Francesco wasted years in cells, chill and damp in winter, and scorching in summer, before the falsehood of the accusation was known. Then, as some relief to sufferings so little merited, Jacopo was admitted."

"With what object, girl?"

"Highness, was it not in pity? They promised too, that in good time the service of the son should buy the father's liberty. The patricians were slow to be convinced, and they made terms with poor Jacopo, who agreed to undergo a hard service that his father might breathe free air before he died."

"Thou dealest in enigmas."

"I am little used, great Doge, to speak in such a presence, or on such subjects. But this I know, that for three weary years hath Jacopo been admitted to his father's cell, and that those up above consented to the visits, else would my father have denied them. I was his companion in the holy act, and will call the blessed Maria and the saints———"

"Girl, didst thou know him for a bravo?"

"Oh! Highness, no. To me he seemed a dutiful child, fearing God and honoring his parent. I hope never to feel another pang, like that which chilled my heart when they said, he I had known as the kind Carlo was hunted in Venice as the abhorred Jacopo! But it is passed, the Mother of God be praised!"

"Thou art betrothed to this condemned man?"

The color did not deepen on the cheek of Gelsomina at this abrupt question, for the tie between her and Jacopo had become too sacred for the ordinary weaknesses of her sex.

"Highness, yes; we were to be married, should it have pleased God, and those great senators who have so much influence over the happiness of the poor, to permit it."

"And thou art still willing, knowing the man, to pledge thy vows to one like Jacopo?"

"It is because I do know him to be as he is, that I most reverence him, great Doge. He has sold his time and his good name to the state, in order to save his imprisoned father, and in that I see nothing to frighten one he loves."

"This affair needs explanation, Carmelite. The girl has a heated fancy, and she renders that obscure she should explain."

"Illustrious prince, she would say that the Republic was content to grant the son the indulgence of visiting the captive, with some encouragement of his release, on condition that the youth might serve the police by bearing a bravo's reputation."

"And for this incredible tale, father, you have the word of a condemned, criminal!"

"With the near view of death before his eyes. There are means of rendering truth evident, familiar to those who are often near the dying penitents, that are unknown to those of the world. In any case, Signore, the matter is worthy of investigation."

"In that thou art right. Is the hour named for the execution?"

"With the morning light, prince."

"And the father?"

"Is dead."

"A prisoner, Carmelite!"

"A prisoner, Prince of Venice."

There was a pause.

"Hast thou heard of the death of one named Antonio?"

"Signore, yes. By the sacred nature of my holy office, do I affirm that of this crime is Jacopo innocent! I shrived the fisherman."

The Doge turned away, for the truth began to dawn upon him, and the flush which glowed on his aged cheek contained a confession that might not be observed by every eye. He sought the glance of his companion, but his own expression of human feeling was met by the disciplined features of the other, as light is coldly repelled from polished stone.

"Highness!" added a tremulous voice.

"What would'st thou, child?"

"There is a God for the Republic, as well as for the gondolier! Your Highness will turn this great crime from Venice?"

"Thou art of plain speech, girl!"

"The danger of Carlo has made me bold. You are much beloved by the people, and none speak of you, that they do not speak of your goodness, and of your desire to serve the poor. You are the root of a rich and happy family, and you will not—nay, you cannot if you would, think it a crime for a son to devote all to a father. You are our father, and we have a right to come to you, even for mercy—but, Highness, I ask only for justice."

"Justice is the motto of Venice."

"They who live in the high favor of Providence do not always know what the unhappy undergo. It has pleased God to afflict my own poor mother, who has griefs that, but for her patience and Christian faith, would have been hard to bear. The little care I had it in my power to show, first caught Jacopo's eye, for his heart was then full of the duty of the child. Would your Highness consent to see poor Carlo, or to command him to be brought hither, his simple tale would give the lie to every foul slander they have dared to say against him."

"It is unnecessary—it is unnecessary. Thy faith in his innocence, girl, is more eloquent than any words of his can prove."

A gleam of joy irradiated the face of Gelsomina, who turned eagerly to the listening monk, as she continued—

"His Highness listens," she said, "and we shall prevail! Father, they menace in Venice, and alarm the timid, but they will never do the deed we feared. Is not the God of Jacopo my God, and your God?—the God of the senate and of the Doge?—of the Council and of the Republic? I would the secret members of the Three could have seen poor Jacopo, as I have seen him, coming from his toil, weary with labor and heart-broken with delay, enter the winter or the summer cell—chilling or scorching as the season might be—struggling to be cheerful, that the falsely accused might not feel a greater weight of misery. Oh! venerable and kind prince, you little know the burden that the feeble are often made to carry, for to you life has been sunshine; but there are millions who are condemned to do that they loathe, that they may not do that they dread."

"Child, thou tell'st me nothing new."

"Except in convincing you, Highness, that Jacopo is not the monster they would have him. I do not know the secret reasons of the councils for wishing the youth to lend himself to a deception that had nigh proved so fatal; but all is explained, we have naught now to fear. Come, father; we will leave the good and just Doge to go to rest, as suits his years, and we will return to gladden the heart of Jacopo with our success, and thank the blessed Maria for her favor."

"Stay!" exclaimed the half-stifled old man. "Is this true that thou tellest me, girl:—Father, can it be so!"

"Signore, I have said all that truth and my conscience have prompted."

The prince seemed bewildered, turning his look from the motionless girl to the equally immovable member of the Three.

"Come hither, child," he said, his voice trembling as he spoke. "Come hither, that I may bless thee." Gelsomina sprang forward, and knelt at the feet of her sovereign. Father Anselmo never uttered a clearer or more fervent benediction than that which fell from the lips of the Prince of Venice. He raised the daughter of the prison-keeper, and motioned for both his visitors to withdraw. Gelsomina willingly complied, for her heart was already in the cell of Jacopo, in the eagerness to communicate her success; but the Carmelite lingered to cast a look behind, like one better acquainted with the effects of worldly policy, when connected with the interests of those who pervert governments to the advantage of the privileged. As he passed through the door, however, he felt his hopes revive, for he saw the aged prince, unable any longer to suppress his feelings, hastening towards his still silent companion, with both hands extended, eyes moistening with tears, and a look that betrayed the emotions of one anxious to find relief in human sympathies.



CHAPTER XXXI.

"On—on— It Is our knell, or that of Venice.—On." MARINO FALIERO.

Another morning called the Venetians to their affairs. Agents of the police had been active in preparing the public mind, and as the sun rose above the narrow sea, the squares began to fill. There were present the curious citizen in his, cloak and cap, bare-legged laborers in wondering awe, the circumspect Hebrew in his gaberdine and beard, masked gentlemen, and many an attentive stranger from among the thousands who still frequented that declining mart. It was rumored that an act of retributive justice was about to take place, for the peace of the town and the protection of the citizen. In short, curiosity, idleness, and revenge, with all the usual train of human feelings, had drawn together a multitude eager to witness the agonies of a fellow-creature.

The Dalmatians were drawn up near the sea, in a manner to inclose the two granite columns of the Piazzetta. Their grave and disciplined faces fronted inwards towards the African pillars, those well known landmarks of death. A few grim warriors of higher rank paced the flags before the troops, while a dense crowd filled the exterior space. By special favor more than a hundred fishermen were grouped within the armed men, witnesses that their class had revenge. Between the lofty pedestals of St. Theodore and the winged lion lay the block and the axe, the basket and the saw-dust; the usual accompaniments of justice in that day. By their side stood the executioner.

At length a movement in the living mass drew every eye towards the gate of the palace. A murmur arose, the multitude wavered, and a small body of the Sbirri came into view. Their steps were swift like the march of destiny. The Dalmatians opened to receive these ministers of fate into their bosom, and closing their ranks again, appeared to preclude the world with its hopes from the condemned. On reaching the block between the columns the Sbirri fell off in files, waiting at a little distance, while Jacopo was left before the engines of death attended by his ghostly counsellor, the Carmelite. The action left them open to the gaze of the throng.

Father Anselmo was in the usual attire of a bare-footed friar of his order. The cowl of the holy man was thrown back, exposing his mortified lineaments and his self-examining eye to those around. The expression of his countenance was that of bewildered uncertainty, relieved by frequent but fitful glimmerings of hope. Though his lips were constant in prayer, his looks wandered, by an irrepressible impulse, from one window of the Doge's palace to another. He took his station near the condemned, however, and thrice crossed himself fervently.

Jacopo had tranquilly placed his person before the block. His head was bare, his cheek colorless, his throat and neck uncovered from the shoulders, his body in its linen, and the rest of his form was clad in the ordinary dress of a gondolier. He kneeled with his face bowed to the block, repeated a prayer, and rising he faced the multitude with dignity and composure. As his eye moved slowly over the array of human countenances by which he was environed, a hectic glowed on his features, for not one of them all betrayed sympathy in his sufferings. His breast heaved, and those nearest to his person thought the self-command of the miserable man was about to fail him. The result disappointed expectation. There was a shudder, and the limbs settled into repose.

"Thou hast looked in vain among the multitude for a friendly eye?" said the Carmelite, whose attention had been drawn to the convulsive movement.

"None here have pity for an assassin."

"Remember thy Redeemer, son. He suffered ignominy and death for a race that denied his Godhead, and derided his sorrows."

Jacopo crossed himself, and bowed his head in reverence.

"Hast thou more prayers to repeat, father?" demanded the chief of the Sbirri; he who was particularly charged with the duty of the hour." Though the illustrious councils are so sure in justice, they are merciful to the souls of sinners."

"Are thy orders peremptory?" asked the monk, unconsciously fixing his eye again on the windows of the palace. "Is it certain that the prisoner is to die?"

The officer smiled at the simplicity of the question, but with the apathy of one too much familiarized with human suffering to admit of compassion.

"Do any doubt it?" he rejoined. "It is the lot of man, reverend monk; and more especially is it the lot of those on whom the judgment of St. Mark has alighted. It were better that your penitent looked to his soul."

"Surely thou hast thy private and express commands! They have named a minute when this bloody work is to be performed?"

"Holy Carmelite, I have. The time will not be weary, and you will do well to make the most of it, unless you have faith already in the prisoner's condition."

As he spoke, the officer threw a glance at the dial of the square, and walked coolly away. The action left the priest and the prisoner again alone between the columns. It was evident that the former could not yet believe in the reality of the execution.

"Hast thou no hope, Jacopo?" he asked.

"Carmelite, in my God.

"They cannot commit this wrong! I shrived Antonio—I witnessed his fate, and the Prince knows it!"

"What is a Prince and his justice, where the selfishness of a few rules! Father, thou art new in the Senate's service."

"I shall not presume to say that God will blast those who do this deed, for we cannot trace the mysteries of his wisdom. This life and all this world can offer, are but specks in his omniscient eye, and what to us seems evil may be pregnant with good.—Hast thou faith in thy Redeemer, Jacopo?"

The prisoner laid his hand upon his heart and smiled, with the calm assurance that none but those who are thus sustained can feel.

"We will again pray, my son."

The Carmelite and Jacopo kneeled side by side, the latter bowing his head to the block, while the monk uttered a final appeal to the mercy of the Deity. The former arose, but the latter continued in the suppliant attitude. The monk was so full of holy thoughts that, forgetting his former wishes, he was nearly content the prisoner should pass into the fruition of that hope which elevated his own mind. The officer and executioner drew near, the former touching the arm of Father Anselmo, and pointing towards the distant dial.

"The moment is near," he whispered, more from habit than in any tenderness to the prisoner.

The Carmelite turned instinctively towards the palace, forgetting in the sudden impulse all but his sense of earthly justice. There were forms at the windows, and he fancied a signal to stay the impending blow was about to be given.

"Hold!" he exclaimed. "For the love of Maria of most pure memory, be not too hasty!"

The exclamation was repeated by a shrill female voice, and then Gelsomina, eluding every effort to arrest her, rushed through the Dalmatians, and reached the group between the granite columns. Wonder and curiosity agitated the multitude, and a deep murmur ran through the square.

"'Tis a maniac!" cried one.

"'Tis a victim of his arts!" said another, for when men have a reputation for any particular vice, the world seldom fails to attribute all the rest.

Gelsomina seized the bonds of Jacopo, and endeavored frantically to release his arms.

"I had hoped thou would'st have been spared this sight, poor Gessina!" said the condemned.

"Be not alarmed!" she answered, gasping for breath. "They do it in mockery; 't is one of their wiles to mislead—but they cannot—no, they dare not harm a hair of thy head, Carlo!"

"Dearest Gelsomina!"

"Nay, do not hold me; I will speak to the citizens, and tell them all. They are angry now, but when they know the truth they will love thee, Carlo, as I do."

"Bless thee—bless thee!—I would thou hadst not come."

"Fear not for me! I am little used to such a crowd, but thou wilt see that I shall dare to speak them fair, and to make known the truth boldly. I want but breath."

"Dearest! Thou hast a mother—a father to share thy tenderness. Duty to them will make thee happy!"

"Now I can speak, and thou shalt see how I will vindicate thy name."

She arose from the arms of her lover, who, notwithstanding his bonds, released his hold of her slight form with a reluctance greater than that with which he parted with life. The struggle in the mind of Jacopo seemed over. He bowed his head passively to the block, before which he was kneeling; and it is probable, by the manner in which his hands were clasped, that he prayed for her who left him. Not so Gelsomina. Parting her hair over her spotless forehead with both hands, she advanced towards the fishermen, who were familiar to her eye by their red caps and bare limbs. Her smile was like that which the imagination would bestow on the blessed, in their intercourse of love.

"Venetians!" she said, "I cannot blame you; ye are here to witness the death of one whom ye believe unfit to live——"

"The murderer of old Antonio!" muttered several of the group.

"Aye, even the murderer of that aged and excellent man. But when you hear the truth, when you come to know that he whom you have believed an assassin, was a pious child, a faithful servant of the Republic, a gentle gondolier, and a true heart, you will change your bloody purpose for a wish for justice."

A common murmur drowned her voice, which was so trembling and low as to need deep stillness to render the words audible. The Carmelite had advanced to her side, and he motioned earnestly for silence.

"Hear her, men of the Lagunes!" he said; "she utters holy truth."

"This reverend and pious monk, with Heaven, is my witness. When you shall know Carlo better, and have heard his tale, ye will be the first to cry out for his release. I tell you this, that when the Doge shall appear at yon window and make the signal of mercy, you need not be angry, and believe that your class has been wronged. Poor Carlo——"

"The girl raves!" interrupted the moody fishermen. "Here is no Carlo, but Jacopo Frontoni, a common bravo."

Gelsomina smiled, in the security of the innocent, and regaining her breath, which nervous agitation still disturbed, she resumed—

"Carlo or Jacopo—Jacopo or Carlo—it matters little."

"Ha! There is a sign from the palace!" shouted the Carmelite, stretching both his arms in that direction, as if to grasp a boon. The clarions sounded, and another wave stirred the multitude. Gelsomina uttered a cry of delight, and turned to throw herself upon the bosom of the reprieved. The axe glittered before her eyes, and the head of Jacopo rolled upon the stones, as if to meet her. A general movement in the living mass denoted the end.

The Dalmatians wheeled into column, the Sbirri pushed aside the throng on their way to their haunts; the water of the bay was dashed upon the flags; the clotted saw-dust was gathered; the head and trunk, block, basket, axe, and executioner disappeared, and the crowd circulated around the fatal spot.

During this horrible and brief moment neither Father Anselmo nor Gelsomina moved. All was over, and still the entire scene appeared to be delusion.

"Take away this maniac!" said an officer of the police, pointing to Gelsomina as he spoke.

He was obeyed with Venetian readiness, but his words proved prophetic before his servitors had quitted the square. The Carmelite scarce breathed. He gazed at the moving multitude, at the windows of the palace, and at the sun which shone so gloriously in the heavens.

"Thou art lost in this crowd!" whispered one at his elbow. "Reverend Carmelite, you will do well to follow me."

The monk was too much subdued to hesitate. His conductor led him by many secret ways to a quay, where he instantly embarked in a gondola for the main. Before the sun reached the meridian the thoughtful and trembling monk was on his journey towards the States of the Church, and ere long he became established in the castle of Sant' Agata.

At the usual hour the sun fell behind the mountains of the Tyrol, and the moon reappeared above the Lido. The narrow streets of Venice again poured out their thousands upon the squares. The mild light fell athwart the quaint architecture and the giddy tower, throwing a deceptive glory on the city of islands.

The porticoes became brilliant with lamps, the gay laughed, the reckless trifled, the masker pursued his hidden purpose, the cantatrice and the grotesque acted their parts, and the million existed in that vacant enjoyment which distinguishes the pleasures of the thoughtless and the idle. Each lived for himself, while the state of Venice held its vicious sway, corrupting alike the ruler and the ruled, by its mockery of those sacred principles which are alone founded in truth and natural justice.

THE END