“Who art thou?” escaped him, in the impulse of surprise.

“Antonio of the Lamines!  A fisherman that owes much to St. Anthony, for favors little deserved.”

“And why hath one like thee fallen beneath the Senate’s displeasure?”

“I am honest and ready to do justice to others.  If that offend the great, they are men more to be pitied than envied.”

“The convicted are always more disposed to believe themselves unfortunate than guilty.  The error is fatal, and it should be eradicated from the mind, lest it lead to death.”

“Go tell this to the patricians.  They have need of plain counsel, and a warning from the church.”

“My son, there is pride and anger, and a perverse heart in thy replies.  The sins of the senators—­and as they are men, they are not without spot—­can in no manner whiten thine own.  Though an unjust sentence should condemn one to punishment, it leaves the offences against God in their native deformity.  Men may pity him who hath wrongfully undergone the anger of the world, but the church will only pronounce pardon on him who confesseth his errors, with a sincere admission of their magnitude.”

“Have you come, father, to shrive a penitent?”

“Such is my errand.  I lament the occasion, and if what I fear be true, still more must I regret that one so aged should have brought his devoted head beneath the arm of justice.”

Antonio smiled, and again he bent his eyes along that dazzling streak of light which had swallowed up the gondola and the person of the Bravo.

“Father,” he said, when a long and earnest look was ended, “there can be little harm in speaking truth to one of thy holy office.  They have told thee there was a criminal here in the Lagunes, who hath provoked the anger of St. Mark?”

“Thou art right.”

“It is not easy to know when St. Mark is pleased, or when he is not,” continued Antonio, plying his line with indifference, “for the very man he now seeks has he long tolerated; aye, even in presence of the Doge.  The Senate hath its reasons which lie beyond the reach of the ignorant, but it would have been better for the soul of the poor youth, and more seemly for the Republic, had it turned a discouraging countenance on his deeds from the first.”

“Thou speakest of another! thou art not then the criminal they seek!”

“I am a sinner, like all born of woman, reverend Carmelite, but my hand hath never held any other weapon than the good sword with which I struck the infidel.  There was one lately here, that, I grieve to add, cannot say this!”

“And he is gone?”

“Father, you have your eyes, and you can answer that question for yourself.  He is gone; though he is not far; still is he beyond the reach of the swiftest gondola in Venice, praised be St. Mark!”

The Carmelite bowed his head, where he was seated, and his lips moved, either in prayer or in thanksgiving.