“Are you sorry, monk, that a sinner has escaped?”

“Son, I rejoice that this bitter office hath passed from me, while I mourn that there should be a spirit so depraved as to require it.  Let us summon the servants of the Republic, and inform them that their errand is useless.”

“Be not of haste, good father.  The night is gentle, and these hirelings sleep on their oars, like gulls in the Lagunes.  The youth will have more time for repentance, should he be undisturbed.”

The Carmelite, who had risen, instantly reseated himself, like one actuated by a strong impulse.

“I thought he had already been far beyond pursuit,” he muttered, unconsciously apologizing for his apparent haste.

“He is over bold, and I fear he will row back to the canals, in which case you might meet nearer to the city—­or there may be more gondolas of the state out—­in short, father, thou wilt be more certain to escape hearing the confession of a Bravo, by listening to that of a fisherman, who has long wanted an occasion to acknowledge his sins.”

Men who ardently wish the same result, require few words to understand each other.  The Carmelite took, intuitively, the meaning of his companion, and throwing back his cowl, a movement that exposed the countenance of Father Anselmo, he prepared to listen to the confession of the old man.

“Thou art a Christian, and one of thy years hath not to learn the state of mind that becometh a penitent,” said the monk, when each was ready.

“I am a sinner, father; give me counsel and absolution, that I may have hope.”

“Thy will be done—­thy prayer is heard—­approach and kneel.”

Antonio, who had fastened his line to his seat, and disposed of his net with habitual care, now crossed himself devoutly, and took his station before the Carmelite.  His acknowledgments of error then began.  Much mental misery clothed the language and ideas of the fisherman with a dignity that his auditor had not been accustomed to find in men of his class.  A spirit so long chastened by suffering had become elevated and noble.  He related his hopes for the boy, the manner in which they had been blasted by the unjust and selfish policy of the state, his different efforts to procure the release of his grandson, and his bold expedients at the regatta, and the fancied nuptials with the Adriatic.  When he had thus prepared the Carmelite to understand the origin of his sinful passions, which it was now his duty to expose, he spoke of those passions themselves, and of their influence on a mind that was ordinarily at peace with mankind.  The tale was told simply and without reserve, but in a manner to inspire respect, and to awaken powerful sympathy in him who heard it.

“And these feelings thou didst indulge against the honored and powerful of Venice!” demanded the monk, affecting a severity he could not feel.

“Before my God do I confess the sin!  In bitterness of heart I cursed them; for to me they seemed men without feeling for the poor, and heartless as the marbles of their own palaces.”