When Gelsomina returned to her visitors, it was with a report favorable to their tranquillity. The riot in the court of the palace, and the movement of the Dalmatians, had drawn all eyes in another direction; and although some errant gaze might have witnessed their entrance into the gate of the prison, it was so natural a circumstance, that no one would suspect females of their appearance of remaining there an instant longer than was necessary. The momentary absence of the few servants of the prison, who took little heed of those who entered the open parts of the building, and who had been drawn away by curiosity, completed their security. The humble room they were in was exclusively devoted to the use of their gentle protector, and there was scarcely a possibility of interruption, until the council had obtained the leisure and the means of making use of those terrible means, which rarely left anything it wished to know concealed.
With this explanation Donna Violetta and her companion were greatly satisfied. It left them leisure to devise means for their flight, and kindled a hope, in the former, of being speedily restored to Don Camillo. Still there existed the cruel embarrassment of not possessing the means of acquainting the latter with their situation. As the tumult ceased, they resolved to seek a boat, avored by such disguises as the means of Gelsomina could supply, and to row to his palace; but reflection convinced Donna Florinda of the danger of such a step, since the Neapolitan was known to be surrounded by the agents of the police. Accident, which is more effectual than stratagem in defeating intrigues, had thrown them into a place of momentary security, and it would be to lose the vantage-ground of their situation to cast themselves, without the utmost caution, into the hazards of the public canals.
At length the governess bethought her of turning the services of the gentle creature, who had already shown so much sympathy in their behalf, to account. During the revelations of her pupil, the feminine instinct of Donna Florinda had enabled her to discover the secret springs which moved the unpractised feelings of their auditor. Gelsomina had listened to the manner in which Don Camillo had thrown himself into the canal to save the life of Violetta, with breathless admiration; her countenance was a pure reflection of her thoughts, when the daughter of Tiepolo spoke of the risks he had run to gain her love, and woman glowed in every lineament of her mild face, when the youthful bride touched on the nature of the engrossing tie which had united them, and which was far too holy to be severed by the Senate's policy.
"If we had the means of getting our situation to the ears of Don Camillo," said the governess, "all might yet be saved; else will this happy refuge in the prison avail us nothing."
"Is the cavalier of too stout a heart to shrink before those up above?" demanded Gelsomina.
"He would summon the people of his confidence, and ere the dawn of day we might still be beyond their power. Those calculating senators will deal with the vows of my pupil as if they were childish oaths, and set the anger of the Holy See itself at defiance, when there is question of their interest."
"But the sacrament of marriage is not of man; that, at least, they will respect!"
"Believe it not. There is no obligation so solemn as to be respected, when their policy is concerned. What are the wishes of a girl, or what the happiness of a solitary and helpless female, to their fortunes? That my charge is young, is a reason why their wisdom should interfere, though it is none to touch their hearts with the reflection that the misery to which they would condemn her, is to last the longer. They take no account of the solemn obligations of gratitude; the ties of affection are so many means of working upon the fears of those they rule, but none for forbearance; and they laugh at the devotedness of woman's love, as a folly to amuse their leisure, or to take off the edge of disappointment in graver concerns."
"Can anything be more grave than wedlock, lady?"
"To them it is important, as it furnishes the means of perpetuating their honors and their proud names. Beyond this, the council looks little at domestic interests."
"They are fathers and husbands!"
"True, for to be legally the first, they must become the last. Marriage to them is not a tie of sacred and dear affinity, but the means of increasing their riches and of sustaining their names," continued the governess, watching the effect of her words on the countenance of the guileless girl. "They call marriages of affection children's games, and they deal with the wishes of their own daughters, as they would traffic with their commodities of commerce. When a state sets up an idol of gold as its god, few will refuse to sacrifice at its altar!"
"I would I might serve the noble Donna Violetta!"
"Thou art too young, good Gelsomina, and I fear too little practised in the cunning of Venice."
"Doubt me not, lady; for I can do my duty like another, in a good cause."
"If it were possible to convey to Don Camillo Monforte a knowledge of our situation—but thou art too inexperienced for the service!"
"Believe it not, Signora," interrupted the generous Gelsomina, whose pride began to stimulate her natural sympathies with one so near her own age, and one too, like herself, subject to that passion which engrosses a female heart. "I may be apter than my appearance would give reason to think."
"I will trust thee, kind girl, and if the Sainted Virgin protects us, thy fortunes shall not be forgotten!"
The pious Gelsomina crossed herself, and, first acquainting her companions with her intentions, she went within to prepare herself, while Donna Florinda penned a note, in terms so guarded as to defy detection in the event of accident, but which might suffice to let the lord of St. Agata understand their present situation.
In a few minutes the keeper's daughter reappeared. Her ordinary attire, which was that of a modest Venetian maiden of humble condition, needed no concealment; and the mask, an article of dress which none in that city were without, effectually disguised her features. She then received the note, with the name of the street, and the palace she was to seek, a description of the person of the Neapolitan, with often-repeated cautions to be wary, and departed.
"Which is the wiser here?—Justice or iniquity?"MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
"Which is the wiser here?—Justice or iniquity?"
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
In the constant struggle between the innocent and the artful, the latter have the advantage, so long as they confine themselves to familiar interests. But the moment the former conquer their disgust for the study of vice, and throw themselves upon the protection of their own high principles, they are far more effectually concealed from the calculations of their adversaries than if they practised the most refined of their subtle expedients. Nature has given to every man enough of frailty to enable him to estimate the workings of selfishness and fraud, but her truly privileged are those who can shroud their motives and intentions in a degree of justice and disinterestedness, which surpass the calculations of the designing. Millions may bow to the commands of a conventional right, but few, indeed, are they who know how to choose in novel and difficult cases. There is often a mystery in virtue. While the cunning of vice is no more than a pitiful imitation of that art which endeavors to cloak its workings in the thin veil of deception, the other, in some degree, resembles the sublimity of infallible truth.
Thus men too much practised in the interests of life, constantly overreach themselves when brought in contact with the simple and intelligent; and the experience of every day proves that, as there is no fame permanent which is not founded on virtue, so there is no policy secure which is not bottomed on the good of the whole. Vulgar minds may control the concerns of a community so long as they arc limited to vulgar views; but woe to the people who confide on great emergencies in any but the honest, the noble, the wise, and the philanthropic; for there is no security for success when the meanly artful control the occasional and providential events which regenerate a nation. More than half the misery which has defeated as well as disgraced civilization, proceeds from neglecting to use those great men that are always created by great occasions.
Treating, as we are, of the vices of the Venetian system, our pen has run truant with its subject, since the application of the moral must be made on the familiar scale suited to the incidents of our story. It has already been seen that Gelsomina was intrusted with certain important keys of the prison. For this trust there had been sufficient motive with the wily guardians of the jail, who had made their calculations on her serving their particular orders, without ever suspecting that she was capable of so far listening to the promptings of a generous temper, as might induce her to use them in any manner prejudicial to their own views. The service to which they were now to be applied proved that the keepers, one of whom was her own father, had not fully known how to estimate the powers of the innocent and simple.
Provided with the keys in question, Gelsomina took a lamp and passed upwards from the mezzinino in which she dwelt, to the first floor of the edifice, instead of descending to its court. Door was opened after door, and many a gloomy corridor was passed by the gentle girl, with the confidence of one who knew her motive to be good. She soon crossed the Bridge of Sighs, fearless of interruption in that unfrequented gallery, and entered the palace. Here she made her way to a door that opened on the common and public vomitories of the structure. Moving with sufficient care to make impunity from detection sure, she extinguished the light and applied the key. At the next instant she was on the vast and gloomy stairway. It required but a moment to descend it, and to reach the covered gallery which surrounded the court. A halberdier was within a few feet of her. He looked at the unknown female with interest; but as it was not his business to question those who issued from the building, nothing was said. Gelsomina walked on. A half-repenting but vindictive being was dropping an accusation in the lion's mouth. Gelsomina stopped involuntarily until the secret accuser had done his treacherous work and departed. Then, when she was about to proceed, she saw that the halberdier at the head of the Giant's stairway was smiling at her indecision, like one accustomed to such scenes.
"Is there danger in quitting the palace?" she asked of the rough mountaineer.
"Corpo di Bacco! There might have been an hour since, Bella Donna; but the rioters are muzzled and at their prayers."
Gelsomina hesitated no longer. She descended the well known flight, down which the head of Faliero had rolled, and was soon beneath the arch of the gate. Here the timid and unpractised maid again stopped, for she could not venture into the square without assuring herself, like a deer about to quit its cover, of the tranquillity of the place into which she was to enter.
The agents of the police had been too much alarmed by the rising of the fishermen not to call their usual ingenuity and finesse into play, the moment the disturbance was appeased. Money had been given to the mountebanks and ballad singers to induce them to reappear, and groups of hirelings, some in masks and others without concealment, were ostentatiously assembled in different parts of the piazza. In short, those usual expedients were resorted to which are constantly used to restore the confidence of a people, in those countries in which civilization is so new, that they are not yet considered sufficiently advanced to be the guardians of their own security. There are few artifices so shallow that many will not be their dupes. The idler, the curious, the really discontented, the factious, the designing, with a suitable mixture of the unthinking, and of those who only live for the pleasure of the passing hour, a class not the least insignificant for numbers, had lent themselves to the views of the police; and when Gelsomina was ready to enter the Piazzetta, she found both the squares partly filled. A few excited fishermen clustered about the doors of the cathedral, like bees swarming before their hive; but, on that side, there was no very visible cause of alarm. Unaccustomed as she was to scenes like that before her, the first glance assured the gentle girl of the real privacy which so singularly distinguishes the solitude of a crowd. Gathering her simple mantle more closely about her form, and settling her mask with care, she moved with a swift step into the centre of the piazza.
We shall not detail the progress of our heroine, as, avoiding the commonplace gallantry that assailed and offended her ear, she went her way on her errand of kindness. Young, active, and impelled by her intentions, the square was soon passed, and she reached the place of San Nico. Here was one of the landings of the public gondolas. But at the moment there was no boat in waiting, for curiosity or fear had induced the men to quit their usual stand. Gelsomina had ascended the bridge, and was on the crown of its arch, when a gondolier came sweeping lazily in from the direction of the Grand Canal. Her hesitation and doubting manner attracted his attention, and the man made the customary sign which conveyed the offer of his services. As she was nearly a stranger in the streets of Venice, labyrinths that offer greater embarrassment to the uninitiated than perhaps the passages of any other town of its size, she gladly availed herself of the offer. To descend to the steps, to leap into the boat, to utter the word "Rialto," and to conceal herself in the pavilion, was the business of a minute. The boat was instantly in motion.
Gelsomina now believed herself secure of effecting her purpose, since there was little to apprehend from the knowledge or the designs of a common boatman. He could not know her object, and it was his interest to carry her in safety to the place she had commanded. But so important was success, that she could not feel secure of attaining it while it was still unaccomplished. She soon summoned sufficient resolution to look out at the palaces and boats they were passing, and she felt the refreshing air of the canal revive her courage. Then turning with a sensitive distrust to examine the countenance of the gondolier, she saw that his features were concealed beneath a mask that was so well designed, as not to be perceptible to a casual observer by moonlight.
Though it was common on occasions for the servants of the great, it was not usual for the public gondoliers to be disguised. The circumstance itself was one justly to excite slight apprehension, though, on second thoughts, Gelsomina saw no more in it than a return from some expedition of pleasure, or some serenade perhaps, in which the caution of a lover had compelled his followers to resort to this species of concealment.
"Shall I put you on the public quay, Signora," demanded the gondolier," or shall I see you to the gate of your own palace?"
The heart of Gelsomina beat high. She liked the tone of the voice, though it was necessarily smothered by the mask, but she was so little accustomed to act in the affairs of others, and less still in any of so great interest, that the sounds caused her to tremble like one less worthily employed.
"Dost thou know the palace of a certain Don Camillo Monforte, a lord of Calabria, who dwells here in Venice?" she asked, after a moment's pause. The gondolier sensibly betrayed surprise, by the manner in which he started at the question.
"Would you be rowed there, lady?"
"If thou art certain of knowing the palazzo."
The water stirred, and the gondola glided between high walls. Gelsomina knew by the sound that they were in one of the smaller canals, and she augured well of the boatman's knowledge of the town. They soon stopped by the side of a water-gate, and the man appeared on the step, holding an arm to aid her in ascending, after the manner of people of his craft. Gelsomina bade him wait her return, and proceeded.
There was a marked derangement in the household of Don Camillo, that one more practised than our heroine would have noted. The servants seemed undecided in the manner of performing the most ordinary duties; their looks wandered distrustfully from one to another, and when their half-frightened visitor entered the vestibule, though all arose, none advanced to meet her. A female masked was not a rare sight in Venice, for few of that sex went upon the canals without using the customary means of concealment; but it would seem by their hesitating manner that the menials of Don Camillo did not view the entrance of her who now appeared with the usual indifference.
"I am in the dwelling of the Duke of St. Agata, a Signore of Calabria?" demanded Gelsomina, who saw the necessity of being firm.
"Signora, si----"
"Is your lord in the palace?"
"Signora, he is—and he is not. What beautiful lady shall I tell him does him this honor?"
"If he be not at home it will not be necessary to tell him anything. If he is, I could wish to see him."
The domestics, of whom there were several, put their heads together, and seemed to dispute on the propriety of receiving the visit. At this instant a gondolier in a flowered jacket entered the vestibule. Gelsomina took courage at his good-natured eye and frank manner.
"Do you serve Don Camillo Monforte?" she asked, as he passed her, on his way to the canal.
"With the oar, Bellissima Donna," answered Gino, touching his cap, though scarce looking aside at the question.
"And could he be told that a female wishes earnestly to speak to him in private?—A female."
"Santa Maria! Bella Donna, there is no end to females who come on these errands in Venice. You might better pay a visit to the statue of San Teodore, in the piazza, than see my master at this moment; the stone will give you the better reception."
"And this he commands you to tell all of my sex who come!"
"Diavolo! Lady, you are particular in your questions. Perhaps my master might, on a strait, receive one of the sex I could name, but on the honor of a gondolier he is not the most gallant cavalier of Venice, just at this moment."
"If there is one to whom he would pay this deference, you are bold for a servitor. How know you I am not that one?"
Gino started. He examined the figure of the applicant, and lifting his cap, he bowed.
"Lady, I do not know anything about it," he said; "you may be his Highness the Doge, or the ambassador of the emperor. I pretend to know nothing in Venice of late----"
The words of Gino were cut short by a tap on the shoulder from the public gondolier, who had hastily entered the vestibule. The man whispered in the ear of Don Camillo's servitor.
"This is not a moment to refuse any," he said. "Let the stranger go up."
Gino hesitated no longer. With the decision of a favored menial he pushed the groom of the chambers aside, and offered to conduct Gelsomina himself to the presence of his master. As they ascended the stairs, three of the inferior servants disappeared.
The palace of Don Camillo had an air of more than Venetian gloom. The rooms were dimly lighted, many of the walls had been stripped of the most precious of their pictures, and in other respects a jealous eye might have detected evidence of a secret intention, on the part of its owner, not to make a permanent residence of the dwelling. But these were particulars that Gelsomina did not note, as she followed Gino through the apartments, into the more private parts of the building. Here the gondolier unlocked a door, and regarding his companion with an air, half-doubting, half-respectful, he made a sign for her to enter.
"My master commonly receives the ladies here," he said. "Enter, eccellenza, while I run to tell him of his happiness."
Gelsomina did not hesitate, though she felt a violent throb at the heart when she heard the key turning in the lock behind her. She was in an ante-chamber, and inferring from the light which shone through the door of an adjoining room that she was to proceed, she went on. No sooner had she entered the little closet than she found herself alone, with one of her own sex.
"Annina!" burst from the lips of the unpractised prison-girl, under the impulse of surprise.
"Gelsomina! The simple, quiet, whispering, modest Gelsomina!" returned the other.
The words of Annina admitted but of one construction. Wounded, like the bruised sensitive plant, Gelsomina withdrew her mask for air, actually gasping for breath, between offended pride and wonder.
"Thou here!" she added, scarce knowing-what she uttered.
"Thou here!" repeated Annina, with such a laugh as escapes the degraded when they believe the innocent reduced to their own level.
"Nay, I come on an errand of pity."
"Santa Maria! we are both here with the same end!"
"Annina! I know not what thou would'st say! This is surely the palace of Don Camillo Monforte! a noble Neapolitan, who urges claims to the honors of the Senate?"
"The gayest, the handsomest, the richest, and the most inconstant cavalier in Venice! Hadst thou been here a thousand times thou could'st not be better informed!"
Gelsomina listened in horror. Her artful cousin, who knew her character to the full extent that vice can comprehend innocence, watched her colorless cheek and contracting eye with secret triumph. At the first moment she had believed all that she insinuated, but second thoughts and a view of the visible distress of the frightened girl gave a new direction to her suspicions.
"But I tell thee nothing new," she quickly added. "I only regret thou should'st find me, where, no doubt, you expected to meet the Duca di Sant' Agata himself."
"Annina!—This from thee!"
"Thou surely didst not come to his palace to seek thy cousin!"
Gelsomina had long been familiar with grief, but until this moment she had never felt the deep humiliation of shame. Tears started from her eyes, and she sank back into a seat, in utter inability to stand.
"I would not distress thee out of bearing," added the artful daughter of the wine-seller. "But that we are both in the closet of the gayest cavalier of Venice, is beyond dispute."
"I have told thee that pity for another brought me hither."
"Pity for Don Camillo."
"For a noble lady—a young, a virtuous, and a beautiful wife—a daughter of the Tiepolo—of the Tiepolo, Annina!"
"Why should a lady of the Tiepolo employ a girl of the public prisons!"
"Why!—because there has been injustice by those up above. There has been a tumult among the fishermen—and the lady and her governess were liberated by the rioters—and his Highness spoke to them in the great court—and the Dalmatians were on the quay—and the prison was a refuge for ladies of their quality, in a moment of so great terror—and the Holy Church itself has blessed their love—"
Gelsomina could utter no more, but breathless with the wish to vindicate herself, and wounded to the soul by the strange embarrassment of her situation, she sobbed aloud. Incoherent as had been her language, she had said enough to remove every doubt from the mind of Annina. Privy to the secret marriage, to the rising of the fishermen, and to the departure of the ladies from the convent on a distant island, where they had been carried on quitting their own palace, the preceding night, and whither she had been compelled to conduct Don Camillo, who had ascertained the departure of those he sought without discovering their destination, the daughter of the wine-seller readily comprehended, not only the errand of her cousin, but the precise situation of the fugitives.
"And thou believest this fiction, Gelsomina?" she said, affecting pity for her cousin's credulity. "The characters of thy pretended daughter of Tiepolo and her governess are no secrets to those who frequent the piazza of San Marco."
"Hadst thou seen the beauty and innocence of the lady, Annina, thou would'st not say this!"
"Blessed San Teodoro! What is more beautiful than vice! 'Tis the cheapest artifice of the devil to deceive frail sinners. This thou hast heard of thy confessor, Gelsomina, or he is of much lighter discourse than mine."
"But why should a woman of this life enter the prisons?"
"They had good reasons to dread the Dalmatians, no doubt. But it is in my power to tell thee more, of these thou hast entertained, with such peril to thine own reputation. There are women in Venice who discredit their sex in various ways, and of these more particularly she who calls herself Florinda, is notorious for her agency in robbing St. Mark of his revenue. She has received a largess from the Neapolitan, of wines grown on his Calabrian mountains, and wishing to tamper with my honesty, she offered the liquor to me, expecting one like me to forget my duty, and to aid her in deceiving the Republic."
"Can this be true, Annina!"
"Why should I deceive thee! Are we not sisters' children, and though affairs on the Lido keep me much from thy company, is not the love between us natural! I complained to the authorities, and the liquors were seized, and the pretended noble ladies were obliged to hide themselves this very day. 'Tis thought they wish to flee the city with their profligate Neapolitan. Driven to take shelter, they have sent thee to acquaint him with their hiding-place, in order that he may come to their aid."
"And why art thou here, Annina?"
"I marvel that thou didst not put the question sooner. Gino, the gondolier of Don Camillo, has long been an unfavored suitor of mine, and when this Florinda complained of my having, what every honest girl in Venice should do, exposed her fraud to the authorities, she advised his master to seize me, partly in revenge, and partly with the vain hope of making me retract the complaint I have made. Thou hast heard of the bold violence of these cavaliers when thwarted in their wills."
Annina then related the manner of her seizure, with sufficient exactitude, merely concealing those facts that it was not her interest to reveal.
"But there is a lady of the Tiepolo, Annina!"
"As sure as there are cousins like ourselves. Santa Madre di Dio! that woman so treacherous and so bold should have met one of thy innocence! It would have been better had they fallen in with me, who am too ignorant for their cunning, blessed St. Anna knows!—but who have not to learn their true characters."
"They did speak of thee, Annina!"
The glance which the wine-seller's daughter threw at her cousin, was such as the treacherous serpent casts at the bird; but preserving her self-possession she added—
"Not to my favor; it would sicken me to hear words of favor from such as they!"
"They are not thy friends, Annina."
"Perhaps they told thee, child, that I was in the employment of the council?"
"Indeed they did."
"No wonder. Your dishonest people can never believe one can do an act of pure conscience. But here comes the Neapolitan.—Note the libertine, Gelsomina, and thou wilt feel for him the same disgust as I!"
The door opened, and Don Camillo Monforte entered. There was an appearance of distrust in his manner, which proved that he did not expect to meet his bride. Gelsomina arose, and, though bewildered by the tale of her cousin, and her own previous impressions, she stood resembling a meek statue of modesty, awaiting his approach. The Neapolitan was evidently struck by her beauty, and the simplicity of her air, but his brow was fixed, like that of a man who had steeled his feelings against deceit.
"Thou would'st see me?" he said.
"I had that wish, noble Signore, but—Annina—"
"Seeing another, thy mind hath changed."
"Signore, it has."
Don Camillo looked at her earnestly, and with manly regret.
"Thou art young for thy vocation—here is gold. Retire as thou earnest.—But hold—dost thou know this Annina?"
"She is my mother's sister's daughter, noble Duca.
"Per Diana! a worthy sisterhood! Depart together, for I have no need of either. But mark me," and as he spoke, Don Camillo took Annina by the arm, and led her aside, when he continued with a low but menacing voice—"Thou seest I am to be feared, as well as thy Councils. Thou canst not cross the threshold of thy father without my knowledge. If prudent, thou wilt teach thy tongue discretion. Do as thou wilt, I fear thee not; but remember, prudence."
Annina made an humble reverence, as if in acknowledgment of the wisdom of his advice, and taking the arm of her half-unconscious cousin, she again curtsied, and hurried from the room. As the presence of their master in his closet was known to them, none of the menials presumed to stop those who issued from the privileged room. Gelsomina, who was even more impatient than her wily companion to escape from a place she believed polluted, was nearly breathless when she reached the gondola. Its owner was in waiting on the steps, and in a moment the boat whirled away from a spot which both of those it contained were, though for reasons so very different, glad to quit.
Gelsomina had forgotten her mask in her hurry, and the gondola was no sooner in the great canal than she put her face at the window of the pavilion in quest of the evening air. The rays of the moon fell upon her guileless eye, and a cheek that was now glowing, partly with offended pride, and partly with joy at her escape from a situation she felt to be so degrading. Her forehead was touched with a finger, and turning she saw the gondolier making a sign of caution. He then slowly lifted his mask.
"Carlo!" had half burst from her lips, but another sign suppressed the cry.
Gelsomina withdrew her head, and, after her beating heart had ceased to throb, she bowed her face and murmured thanksgivings at finding herself, at such a moment, under the protection of one who possessed all her confidence.
The gondolier asked no orders for his direction. The boat moved on, taking the direction of the port, which appeared perfectly natural to the two females.
Annina supposed it was returning to the square, the place she would have sought had she been alone, and Gelsomina, who believed that he whom she called Carlo, toiled regularly as a gondolier for support, fancied, of course, that he was taking her to her ordinary residence.
But though the innocent can endure the scorn of the world, it is hard indeed to be suspected by those they love. All that Annina had told her of the character of Don Camillo and his associates came gradually across the mind of the gentle Gelsomina, and she felt the blood creeping to her temples, as she saw the construction her lover might put on her conduct. A dozen times did the artless girl satisfy herself with saying inwardly, "he knows me and will believe the best," and as often did her feelings prompt her to tell the truth. Suspense is far more painful, at such moments, than even vindication, which, in itself, is a humiliating duty to the virtuous. Pretending a desire to breathe the air, she left her cousin in the canopy. Annina was not sorry to be alone, for she had need to reflect on all the windings of the sinuous path on which she had entered.
Gelsomina succeeded in passing the pavilion, and in gaining the side of the gondolier.
"Carlo!"—she said, observing that he continued to row in silence.
"Gelsomina!"
"Thou hast not questioned me!"
"I know thy treacherous cousin, and can believe thou art her dupe. The moment to learn the truth will come."
"Thou didst not know me, Carlo, when I called thee from the bridge?"
"I did not. Any fare that would occupy my time was welcome."
"Why dost thou call Annina treacherous?"
"Because Venice does not hold a more wily heart, or a falser tongue."
Gelsomina remembered the warning of Donna Florinda. Possessed of the advantage of blood, and that reliance which the inexperienced always place in the integrity of their friends, until exposure comes to destroy the illusion, Annina had found it easy to persuade her cousin of the unworthiness of her guests. But here was one who had all her sympathies, who openly denounced Annina herself. In such a dilemma the bewildered girl did what nature and her feelings suggested. She recounted, in a low but rapid voice, the incidents of the evening, and Annina's construction of the conduct of the females whom she had left behind in the prison.
Jacopo listened so intently that his oar dragged in the water.
"Enough," he said, when Gelsomina, blushing with her own earnestness to stand exculpated in his eyes, had done; "I understand it all. Distrust thy cousin, for the Senate itself is not more false."
The pretended Carlo spoke cautiously, but in a firm voice. Gelsomina took his meaning, though wondering at what she heard, and returned to Annina within. The gondola proceeded, as if nothing had occurred.
"Enough.I could be merry now: Hubert, I love thee;Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee:Remember."KING JOHN.
"Enough.I could be merry now: Hubert, I love thee;Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee:Remember."
KING JOHN.
Jacopo was deeply practised in the windings of Venetian deceit. He knew how unceasingly the eyes of the Councils, through their agents, were on the movements of those in whom they took an interest, and he was far from feeling all the advantage circumstances had seemingly thrown in his way. Annina was certainly in his power, and it was not possible that she had yet communicated the intelligence, derived from Gelsomina, to any of her employers. But a gesture, a look in passing the prison-gates, the appearance of duresse, or an exclamation, might give the alarm to some one of the thousand spies of the police. The disposal of Annina's person in some place of safety, therefore, became the first and the most material act. To return to the palace of Don Camillo, would be to go into the midst of the hirelings of the Senate; and although the Neapolitan, relying on his rank and influence, had preferred this step, when little importance was attached to the detention of the girl, and when all she knew had been revealed, the case was altered, now that she might become the connecting link in the information necessary to enable the officers to find the fugitives.
The gondola moved on. Palace after palace was passed, and the impatient Annina thrust her head from a window to note its progress. They came among the shipping of the port, and her uneasiness sensibly increased. Making? pretext similar to that of Gelsomina, the wine-seller's daughter quitted the pavilion, to steal to the side of the gondolier.
"I would be landed quickly at the water-gate of the Doge's palace," she said, slipping a piece of silver into the hand of the boatman.
"You shall be served, Bella Donna. But—Diamine! I marvel that a girl of thy wit should not scent the treasures in yonder felucca!"
"Dost thou mean the Sorrentine?"
"What other padrone brings as well flavored liquors within the Lido! Quiet thy impatience to land, daughter of honest old Maso, and traffic with the padrone, for the comfort of us of the canals."
"How! Thou knowest me, then?"
"To be the pretty wine-seller of the Lido. Corpo di Bacco! Thou art as well known as the sea-wall itself to us gondoliers."
"Why art thou masked? Thou canst not be Luigi!"
"It is little matter whether I am called Luigi, or Enrico, or Giorgio; I am thy customer, and honor the shortest hair of thy eyebrows. Thou knowest, Annina, that the young patricians have their frolics, and they swear us gondoliers to keep secret till all danger of detection is over; were any impertinent eyes following me, I might be questioned as to the manner of having passed the earlier hours."
"Methinks it would be better to have given thee gold, and to have sent thee at once to thy home."
"To be followed like a denounced Hebrew to my door. When I have confounded my boat with a thousand others it will be time to uncover. Wilt thou to the Bella Sorrentina?"
"Nay, 'tis not necessary to ask, since thou takest the direction of thine own will?"
The gondolier laughed and nodded his head, as if he would give his companion to understand that he was master of her secret wishes. Annina was hesitating in what manner she should make him change his purpose, when the gondola touched the felucca's side.
"We will go up and speak to the padrone," whispered Jacopo.
"It is of no avail; he is without liquors."
"Trust him not; I know the man and his pretences,"
"Thou forgettest my cousin."
"She is an innocent and unsuspecting child."
Jacopo lifted Annina, as he spoke, on the deck of the Bella Sorrentina, in a manner between gallantry and force, and leaped after her. Without pausing, or suffering her to rally her thoughts, he led her to the cabin stairs, which she descended, wondering at his conduct, but determined not to betray her own secret wrongs on the customs to a stranger.
Stefano Milano was asleep in a sail on deck. A touch aroused him, and a sign gave him to understand that the imaginary Roderigo stood before him.
"A thousand pardons, Signore," said the gaping mariner; "is the freight come?"
"In part only. I have brought thee a certain Annina Torti, the daughter of old Tommaso Torti, a wine-seller of the Lido."
"Santa Madre! does the Senate think it necessary to send one like her from the city in secret?"
"It does; and it lays great stress on her detention. I have come hither with her, without suspicion of my object, and she has been prevailed on to enter thy cabin, under a pretence of some secret dealings in wines. According to our former understanding, it will be thy business to make sure of her presence."
"That is easily done," returned Stefano, stepping forward and closing the cabin-door, which he secured by a bolt.
"She is alone, now, with the image of our Lady, and a better occasion to repeat her aves cannot offer."
"This is well, if thou canst keep her so. It is now time to lift thy anchors, and to go beyond the tiers of the vessels with the felucca."
"Signore, there wants but five minutes for that duty, since we are ready."
"Then perform it, in all speed, for much depends on the management of this delicate duty. I will be with thee anon. Harkee, Master Stefano; take heed of thy prisoner, for the Senate makes great account of her security."
The Calabrian made such a gesture, as one initiated uses, when he would express a confidence in his own shrewdness. While the pretended Roderigo re-entered his gondola, Stefano began to awaken his people. As the gondola entered the canal of San Marco, the sails of the felucca fell, and the low Calabrian vessel stole along the tiers towards the clear water beyond.
The boat quickly touched the steps of the water-gate of the palace. Gelsomina entered the arch, and glided up the Giant's Stairway, the route by which she had quitted the palace. The halberdier was the same that watched as she went out. He spoke to her, in gallantry, but offered no impediment to her entrance.
"Haste, noble ladies, hasten for the love of the Holy Virgin!" exclaimed Gelsomina, as she burst into the room in which Donna Violetta and her companion awaited her appearance. "I have endangered your liberty by my weakness, and there is not a moment to lose. Follow while you may, nor stop to whisper even a prayer."
"Thou art hurried and breathless," returned Donna Florinda; "hast thou seen the Duca di Sant' Agata?"
"Nay, question me not, but follow, noble dames." Gelsomina seized the lamp, and casting a glance that appealed strongly to her visitors for tacit compliance, she led the way into the corridors. It is scarcely necessary to say that she was followed.
The prison was left in safety, the Bridge of Sighs was passed, for it will be remembered that Gelsomina was still mistress of the keys, and the party went swiftly by the great stairs of the palace into the open gallery. No obstruction was offered to their progress, and they all descended to the court, with the quiet demeanor of females who went out on their ordinary affairs.
Jacopo awaited at the water-gate. In less than a minute he was driving his gondola across the port, following the course of the felucca, whose white sail was visible in the moonlight, now bellying in the breeze, and now flapping as the mariners checked her speed. Gelsomina watched their progress for a moment in breathless interest, and then she crossed the bridge of the quay, and entered the prison by its public gate.
"Hast thou made sure of the old 'Maso's daughter?" demanded Jacopo, on reaching the deck of the Bella Sorrentina again.
"She is like shifting ballast, Master Roderigo; first on one side of the cabin, and then on the other; but you see the bolt is undrawn."
"'Tis well: here is more of thy freight; thou hast the proper passes for the galley of the guard?"
"All is in excellent order, Signore; when was Stefano Milano out of rule in a matter of haste? Diamine! let the breeze come, and though the Senate should wish us back again, it might send all its sbirri after us in vain."
"Excellent, Stefano! fill thy sails, then, for our masters watch your movements, and set a value on your diligence."
While the Calabrian complied, Jacopo assisted the females to come up out of the gondola. In a moment the heavy yards swung off, wing and wing, and the bubbles that appeared to glance past the side of the Bella Sorrentina, denoted her speed.
"Thou hast noble ladies in thy passengers," said Jacopo to the padrone, when the latter was released from the active duties of getting his vessel in motion; "and though policy requires that they should quit the city for a time, thou wilt gain favor by consulting their pleasures."
"Doubt me not, Master Roderigo; but thou forgettest that I have not yet received my sailing instructions; a felucca without a course is as badly off as an owl in the sun."
"That in good time; there will come an officer of the Republic to settle this matter with thee. I would not have these noble ladies know, that one like Annina is to be their fellow-passenger, while they are near the port; for they might complain of disrespect. Thou understandest, Stefano?"
"Cospetto! am I a fool? a blunderer? if so, why does the Senate employ me? the girl is out of hearing, and there let her stay. As long as the noble dames are willing to breathe the night air, they shall have none of her company."
"No fear of them. The dwellers of the land little relish the pent air of thy cabin. Thou wilt go without the Lido, Stefano, and await my coming. If thou should'st not see me before the hour of one, bear away for the port of Ancona, where thou wilt get further tidings."
Stefano, who had often previously received his instructions from the imaginary Roderigo, nodded assent, and they parted. It is scarcely necessary to add, that the fugitives had been fully instructed in the conduct they were to maintain.
The gondola of Jacopo never flew faster, than he now urged it towards the land. In the constant passage of the boats, the movements of one were not likely to be remarked; and he found, when he reached the quay of the square, that his passing and repassing had not been observed. He boldly unmasked and landed. It was near the hour when he had given Don Camillo a rendezvous in the piazza, and he walked slowly up the smaller square, towards the appointed place of meeting.
Jacopo, as has been seen in an earlier chapter, had a practice of walking near the columns of granite in the first hours of the night. It was the vulgar impression that he waited there for custom in his bloody calling, as men of more innocent lives take their stands in places of mark. When seen on his customary stand, he was avoided by all who were chary of their character, or scrupulous of appearances.
The persecuted and yet singularly tolerated Bravo, was slowly pacing the flags on his way to the appointed place, unwilling to anticipate the moment, when a laquais thrust a paper into his hand, and disappeared as fast as legs would carry him. It has been seen that Jacopo could not read, for that was an age when men of his class were studiously kept in ignorance. He turned to the first passenger who had the appearance of being likely to satisfy his wishes, and desired him to do the office of interpreter.
He had addressed an honest shop-keeper of a distant quarter. The man took the scroll, and good-naturedly commenced reading its contents aloud. "I am called away, and cannot meet thee, Jacopo!" At the name of Jacopo, the tradesman dropped the paper and fled.
The Bravo walked slowly back again towards the quay, ruminating on the awkward accident which had crossed his plans; his elbow was touched, and a masker confronted him when he turned.
"Thou art Jacopo Frontoni?" said the stranger.
"None else."
"Thou hast a hand to serve an employer faithfully?"
"I keep my faith."
"'Tis well, thou wilt find a hundred sequins in this sack."
"Whose life is set against this gold?" asked Jacopo, in an under tone.
"Don Camillo Monforte."
"Don Camillo Monforte!"
"The same; dost thou know the rich noble!"
"You have well described him, Signore. He would pay his barber this for letting blood."
"Do thy job thoroughly, and the price shall be doubled."
"I want the security of a name. I know you not, Signore."
The stranger looked cautiously around him, and raising his mask for an instant, he showed the countenance of Giacomo Gradenigo.
"Is the pledge sufficient?"
"Signore, it is. When must this deed be done?"
"This night. Nay, this hour, even."
"Shall I strike a noble of his rank in his palace—in his very pleasures?"
"Come hither, Jacopo, and thou shalt know more. Hast thou a mask?"
The Bravo signified his assent.
"Then keep thy face behind a cloud, for it is not in favor here, and seek thy boat. I will join thee."
The young patrician, whose form was effectually concealed by his attire, quitted his companion, with a view of rejoining him anew, where his person should not be known. Jacopo forced his boat from among the crowd at the quay, and having entered the open space between the tiers, he lay on his oar, well knowing that he was watched, and that he would soon be followed. His conjecture was right, for in a few moments a gondola pulled swiftly to the side of his own, and two men in masks passed from the strange boat into that of the Bravo, without speaking.
"To the Lido," said a voice, which Jacopo knew to be that of his new employer.
He was obeyed, the boat of Giacomo Gradenigo following at a little distance. When they were without the tiers, and consequently beyond the danger of being overheard, the two passengers came out of the pavilion, and made a sign to the Bravo to cease rowing.
"Thou wilt accept the service, Jacopo Frontoni?" demanded the profligate heir of the old senator.
"Shall I strike the noble in his pleasures, Signore?"
"It is not necessary. We have found means to lure him from his palace, and he is now in thy power, with no other hope than that which may come from his single arm and courage. Wilt thou take the service?"
"Gladly, Signore—It is my humor to encounter the brave."
"Thou wilt be gratified. The Neapolitan has thwarted me in my—shall I call it love, Hosea; or hast thou a better name?"
"Just Daniel! Signor Giacomo, you have no respect for reputations and surety! I see no necessity for a home thrust, Master Jacopo; but a smart wound, that may put matrimony out of the head of the Duca for a time at least, and penitence into its place, would be better—"
"Strike to the heart!" interrupted Giacomo. "It is the certainty of thy blow which has caused me to seek thee."
"This is usurious vengeance, Signor Giacomo," returned the less resolute Jew. "'Twill be more than sufficient for our purposes, if we cause the Neapolitan to keep house for a month."
"Send him to his grave. Harkee, Jacopo, a hundred for thy blow—a second for insurance of its depth—a third if the body shall be buried in the Orfano, so that the water will never give back the secret."
"If the two first must be performed, the last will be prudent caution," muttered the Jew, who was a wary villain, and who greatly preferred such secondary expedients as might lighten the load on his conscience. "You will not trust, young Signore, to a smart wound?"
"Not a sequin. 'Twill be heating the fancy of the girl with hopes and pity. Dost thou accept the terms, Jacopo?"
"I do."
"Then row to the Lido. Among the graves of Hosea's people—why dost thou pull at my skirts, Jew! would'st thou hope to deceive a man of this character with a flimsy lie—among the graves of Hosea's people thou wilt meet Don Camillo within the hour. He is deluded by a pretended letter from the lady of our common pursuit, and will be alone, in the hopes of flight; I trust to thee to hasten the latter, so far as the Neapolitan is concerned. Dost take my meaning?"
"Signore, it is plain."
"'Tis enough. Thou knowest me, and can take the steps necessary for thy reward as thou shalt serve me. Hosea, our affair is ended."
Giacomo Gradenigo made a sign for his gondola to approach, and dropping a sack which contained the retainer in this bloody business, he passed into it with the indifference of one who had been accustomed to consider such means of attaining his object lawful. Not so Hosea: he was a rogue rather than a villain. The preservation of his money, with the temptation of a large sum which had been promised him by both father and son in the event of the latter's success with Violetta, were irresistible temptations to one who had lived contemned by those around him, and he found his solace for the ruthless attempt in the acquisition of those means of enjoyment which are sought equally by Christian and Jew. Still his blood curdled at the extremity to which Giacomo would push the affair, and he lingered to utter a parting word to the Bravo.
"Thou art said to carry a sure stiletto, honest Jacopo," he whispered. "A hand of thy practice must know how to maim as well as to slay. Strike the Neapolitan smartly, but spare his life. Even the bearer of a public dagger like thine may not fare the worse, at the coming of Shiloh, for having been tender of his strength on occasion."
"Thou forgettest the gold, Hosea!"
"Father Abraham! what a memory am I getting in my years! Thou sayest truth, mindful Jacopo; the gold shall be forthcoming in any event—always provided that the affair is so managed as to leave my young friend a successful adventurer with the heiress."
Jacopo made an impatient gesture, for at that moment he saw a gondolier pulling rapidly towards a private part of the Lido. The Hebrew joined his companion, and the boat of the Bravo darted ahead. It was not long ere it lay on the strand of the Lido. The steps of Jacopo were rapid, as he moved towards those proscribed graves among which he had made his confession to the very man he was now sent to slay.
"Art thou sent to meet me?" demanded one who started from behind a rising in the sands, but who took the precaution to bare his rapier as he appeared.
"Signor Duca, I am," returned the Bravo, unmasking.
"Jacopo! This is even better than I had hoped. Hast thou tidings from my bride?"
"Follow, Don Camillo, and you shall quickly meet her."
Words were unnecessary to persuade, when there was such a promise. They were both in the gondola of Jacopo, and on their way to one of the passages through the Lido which conducts to the gulf, before the Bravo commenced his explanation. This, however, was quickly made, not forgetting the design of Giacomo Gradenigo on the life of his auditor.
The felucca, which had been previously provided with the necessary pass by the agents of the police itself, had quitted the port under easy sail by the very inlet through which the gondola made its way into the Adriatic. The water was smooth, the breeze fresh from the land, and in short all things were favorable to the fugitives. Donna Violetta and her governess were leaning against a mast, watching with impatient eyes the distant domes and the midnight beauty of Venice. Occasionally strains of music came to their ears from the canals, and then a touch of natural melancholy crossed the feelings of the former as she feared they might be the last sounds of that nature she should ever hear from her native town. But unalloyed pleasure drove every regret from her mind when Don Camillo leaped from the gondola and folded her in triumph to his heart.
There was little difficulty in persuading Stefano Milano to abandon for ever the service of the Senate for that of his feudal lord. The promises and commands of the latter were sufficient of themselves to reconcile him to the change, and all were convinced there was no time to lose. The felucca soon spread her canvas to the wind and slid away from the beach. Jacopo permitted his gondola to be towed a league to sea before he prepared to re-enter it.
"You will steer for Ancona, Signor Don Camillo," said the Bravo, leaning on the felucca's side, still unwilling to depart, "and throw yourself at once under the protection of the Cardinal Secretary. If Stefano keep the sea he may chance to meet the galleys of the Senate."
"Distrust us not—but thou, my excellent Jacopo—what wilt thou become in their hands?"
"Fear not for me, Signore. God disposes of all as he sees fit. I have told your eccellenza that I cannot yet quit Venice. If fortune favor me, I may still see your stout castle of Sant' Agata."
"And none will be more welcome within its secure walls; I have much fear for thee, Jacopo!"
"Signore, think not of it. I am used to danger—and to misery—and to hopelessness. I have known a pleasure this night, in witnessing the happiness of two young hearts, that God, in his anger, has long denied me. Lady, the Saints keep you, and God, who is above all, shield you from harm!"
He kissed the hand of Donna Violetta, who, half ignorant still of his services, listened to his words in wonder.
"Don Camillo Monforte," he continued, "distrust Venice to your dying day. Let no promises—no hopes—no desire of increasing your honors or your riches, ever tempt you to put yourself in her power. None know the falsehood of the state better than I, and with my parting words I warn you to be wary!"
"Thou speakest as if we were to meet no more, worthy Jacopo!"
The Bravo turned, and the action brought his features to the moon. There was a melancholy smile, in which deep satisfaction at the success of the lovers was mingled with serious forebodings for himself.
"We are certain only of the past," he said in a low voice.
Touching the hand of Don Camillo, he kissed his own and leaped hastily into his gondola. The fast was thrown loose, and the felucca glided away, leaving this extraordinary being alone on the waters. The Neapolitan ran to the taffrail, and the last he saw of Jacopo, the Bravo, was rowing leisurely back towards that scene of violence and deception from which he himself was so glad to have escaped.
[Illustration]
"My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,But rusted with a vile repose,For they have been a dungeon's spoil,And mine hath been the fate of thoseTo whom the goodly earth and airAre banned, and barred—forbidden fare."PRISONER OF CHILLON.
"My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,But rusted with a vile repose,For they have been a dungeon's spoil,And mine hath been the fate of thoseTo whom the goodly earth and airAre banned, and barred—forbidden fare."
PRISONER OF CHILLON.
When the day dawned on the following morning the square of St. Mark was empty. The priests still chanted their prayers for the dead near the body of old Antonio, and a few fishermen still lingered in and near the cathedral, but half persuaded of the manner in which their companion had come to his end. But as was usual at that hour of the day the city appeared tranquil, for though a slight alarm had passed through the canals at the movement of the rioters, it had subsided in that specious and distrustful quiet, which is more or less the unavoidable consequence of a system that is not substantially based on the willing support of the mass.
Jacopo was again in the attic of the Doge's palace, accompanied by the gentle Gelsomina. As they threaded the windings of the building, he recounted to the eager ear of his companion all the details connected with the escape of the lovers; omitting, as a matter of prudence, the attempt of Giacomo Gradenigo on the life of Don Camillo. The unpractised and single-hearted girl heard him in breathless attention, the color of her cheek and the changeful eye betraying the force of her sympathies at each turn in their hazardous adventure.
"And dost thou think they can yet escape from those up above?" murmured Gelsomina, for few in Venice would trust their voices, by putting such a question aloud. "Thou knowest the Republic hath at all times its galleys in the Adriatic!"
"We have had thought of that, and the Calabrian is advised to steer for the mole of Ancona. Once within the States of the Church the influence of Don Camillo and the rights of his noble wife will protect them. Is there a place here whence we can look out upon the sea?"
Gelsomina led the Bravo into an empty room of the attic which commanded a view of the port, the Lido, and the waste of water beyond. The breeze came in strong currents over the roofs of the town, and causing the masts of the port to rock, it lighted on the Lagunes, without the tiers of the shipping. From this point to the barrier of sand, it was apparent by the stooping sails and the struggles of the gondoliers who pulled towards the quay, that the air was swift. Without the Lido itself, the element was shadowed and fitful, while further in the distance the troubled waters, with their crests of foam, sufficiently proved its power.
"Santa Maria be praised!" exclaimed Jacopo, when his understanding eye had run over the near and distant view—"they are already far down the coast, and with a wind like this they cannot fail to reach their haven in a few hours. Let us go to the cell."
Gelsomina smiled when he assured her of the safety of the fugitives, but her look saddened when he changed the discourse. Without reply, however, she did as he desired, and in a very few moments they were standing by the side of the prisoner's pallet. The latter did not appear to observe their entrance, and Jacopo was obliged to announce himself.
"Father!" he said, with that melancholy pathos which always crept into his voice when he addressed the old man, "it is I."
The prisoner turned, and though, evidently much enfeebled since the last visit, a wan smile gleamed on his wasted features.
"And thy mother, boy?" he asked, so eagerly as to cause Gelsomina to turn hastily aside.
"Happy, father—happy."
"Happy without me?"
"She is ever with thee in spirit, father. She thinks of thee in her prayers. Thou hast a saint for an intercessor in my mother—father."
"And thy good sister?"
"Happy too—doubt it not, father. They are both patient and resigned."
"The Senate, boy?"
"Is the same: soulless, selfish, and pretending!" answered Jacopo sternly; then turning away his face, in bitterness of heart, though without permitting the words to be audible, he cursed them.
"The noble Signori were deceived in believing me concerned in the attempt to rob their revenues," returned the patient old man; "one day they will see and acknowledge their error."
Jacopo made no answer, for unlettered as he was, and curtailed of that knowledge which should be, and is bestowed on all by every paternal government, the natural strength of his mind had enabled him to understand that a system, which on its face professed to be founded on the superior acquirements of a privileged few, would be the least likely to admit the fallacy of its theories, by confessing it could err.
"Thou dost the nobles injustice, son; they are illustrious patricians, and have no motive in oppressing one like me."
"None, father, but the necessity of maintaining the severity of the laws, which make them senators and you a prisoner."
"Nay, boy, I have known worthy gentlemen of the Senate! There was the late Signor Tiepolo, who did me much favor in my youth. But for this false accusation, I might now have been one of the most thriving of my craft in Venice."
"Father, we will pray for the soul of the Tiepolo."
"Is the senator dead?"
"So says a gorgeous tomb in the church of the Redentore."
"We must all die at last," whispered the old man, crossing himself. "Doge as well as patrician—patrician as well as gondolier,—Jaco—"
"Father!" exclaimed the Bravo, so suddenly as to interrupt the coming word; then kneeling by the pallet of the prisoner, he whispered in his ear, "thou forgettest there is reason why thou should'st not call me by that name. I have told thee often if thus called my visits must stop."
The prisoner looked bewildered, for the failing of nature rendered that obscure which was once so evident to his mind. After gazing long at his son, his eye wandered between him and the wall, and he smiled childishly.
"Wilt thou look, good boy, if the spider is come back?"
Jacopo groaned, but he rose to comply.
"I do not see it, father; the season is not yet warm."
"Not warm! my veins feel heated to bursting. Thou forgettest this is the attic, and that these are the leads, and then the sun—oh! the sun! The illustrious senators do not bethink them of the pain of passing the bleak winter below the canals, and the burning summers beneath hot metal."
"They think of nothing but their power," murmured Jacopo—"that which is wrongfully obtained, must be maintained by merciless injustice—but why should we speak of this, father; hast thou all thy body needs?"
"Air—son, air!—give me of that air, which God has made for the meanest living thing."
The Bravo rushed towards those fissures in the venerable but polluted pile he had already striven to open, and with frantic force he endeavored to widen them with his hands. The material resisted, though blood flowed from the ends of his fingers in the desperate effort.
"The door, Gelsomina, open wide the door!" he cried, turning away from the spot, exhausted with his fruitless exertions.
"Nay, I do not suffer now, my child—it is when thou hast left me, and when I am alone with my own thoughts, when I see thy weeping mother and neglected sister, that I most feel the want of air—are we not in the fervid month of August, son?"
"Father, it is not yet June."
"I shall then have more heat to bear! God's will be done, and blessed Santa Maria, his mother undefiled!—give me strength to endure it."
The eye of Jacopo gleamed with a wildness scarcely less frightful than the ghastly look of the old man, his chest heaved, his fingers were clenched, and his breathing was audible.
"No," he said, in a low, but in so determined a voice, as to prove how fiercely his resolution was set, "thou shalt not await their torments: arise, father, and go with me. The doors are open, the ways of the palace are known to me in the darkest night, and the keys are at hand. I will find means to conceal thee until dark, and we will quit the accursed Republic for ever."
Hope gleamed in the eye of the old captive, as he listened to this frantic proposal, but distrust of the means immediately altered its expression.
"Thou forgettest those up above, son."
"I think only of One truly above, father."
"And this girl—how canst thou hope to deceive her?"
"She will take thy place—she is with us in heart, and will lend herself to a seeming violence. I do not promise for thee idly, kindest Gelsomina?"
The frightened girl, who had never before witnessed so plain evidence of desperation in her companion, had sunk upon an article of furniture, speechless. The look of the prisoner changed from one to the other, and he made an effort to rise, but debility caused him to fall backwards, and not till then did Jacopo perceive the impracticability, on many accounts, of what, in a moment of excitement, he had proposed. A long silence followed. The hard breathing of Jacopo gradually subsided, and the expression of his face changed to its customary settled and collected look.
"Father," he said, "I must quit thee; our misery draws near a close."
"Thou wilt come to me soon again?"
"If the saints permit—thy blessing, father."
The old man folded his hands above the head of Jacopo, and murmured a prayer. When this pious duty was performed, both the Bravo and Gelsomina busied themselves a little time in contributing to the bodily comforts of the prisoner, and then they departed in company.
Jacopo appeared unwilling to quit the vicinity of the cell. A melancholy presentiment seemed to possess his mind, that these stolen visits were soon to cease. After a little delay, however, they descended to the apartments below, and as Jacopo desired to quit the palace without re-entering the prisons, Gelsomina prepared to let him out by the principal corridor.
"Thou art sadder than common, Carlo," she observed, watching with feminine assiduity his averted eye. "Methinks thou should'st rejoice in the fortunes of the Neapolitan, and of the lady of the Tiepolo."
"That escape is like a gleam of sunshine in a wintry day. Good girl—but we are observed! who is yon spy on our movements?"
"'Tis a menial of the palace; they constantly cross us in this part of the building: come hither, if thou art weary. The room is little used, and we may again look out upon the sea."
Jacopo followed his mild conductor into one of the neglected closets of the second floor, where, in truth, he was glad to catch a glimpse of the state of things in the piazza, before he left the palace. His first look was at the water, which was still rolling southward, before the gale from the Alps. Satisfied with this prospect, he bent his eye beneath. At the instant, an officer of the Republic issued from the palace gate, preceded by a trumpeter, as was usual, when there was occasion to make public proclamation of the Senate's will. Gelsomina opened the casement, and both leaned forward to listen. When the little procession had reached the front of the cathedral, the trumpet sounded, and the voice of the officer was heard.
"Whereas many wicked and ruthless assassinations have of late been committed on the persons of divers good citizens of Venice,"—he proclaimed—"the Senate, in its fatherly care of all whom it is charged to protect, has found reason to resort to extraordinary means of preventing the repetition of crimes so contrary to the laws of God and the security of society. The illustrious Ten therefore offer, thus publicly, a reward of one hundred sequins to him who shall discover the perpetrator of any of these most horrible assassinations; and, whereas, during the past night, the body of a certain Antonio, a well known fisherman, and a worthy citizen, much esteemed by the patricians, has been found in the Lagunes, and, whereas, there is but too much reason to believe that he has come to his death by the hands of a certain Jacopo Frontoni, who has the reputation of a common Bravo, but who has been long watched in rain by the authorities, with the hope of detecting him in the commission of some one of the aforesaid horrible assassinations; now, all good and honest citizens of the Republic are enjoined to assist the authorities in seizing the person of the said Jacopo Frontoni, even though he should take sanctuary: for Venice can no longer endure the presence of one of his sanguinary habits, and for the encouragement of the same, the Senate, in its paternal care, offers the reward of three hundred sequins." The usual words of prayer and sovereignty closed the proclamation.
As it was not usual for those who ruled so much in the dark to make their intentions public, all near listened with wonder and awe to the novel procedure. Some trembled, lest the mysterious and much-dreaded power was about to exhibit itself; while most found means of making their admiration of the fatherly interest of their rulers audible.