“Robber!” he answered, “restore her whom you have spirited away.”

“Signore, you young nobles are often pleased to play your extravagances with the servants of the Republic.  Here are none but the gondoliers and myself.”  A movement of the boat permitted Don Camillo to look into the covered part, and he saw that the other uttered no more than the truth.  Convinced of the uselessness of further parley, knowing the value of every moment, and believing he was on a track which might still lead to success, the young Neapolitan signed to his people to go on.  The boats parted in silence, that of Don Camillo proceeding in the direction from which the other had just come.

In a short time the gondola of Don Camillo was in an open part of the Giudecca, and entirely beyond the tiers of the shipping.  It was so late that the moon had begun to fall, and its light was cast obliquely on the bay, throwing the eastern sides of the buildings and the other objects into shadow.  A dozen different vessels were seen, aided by the land-breeze, steering towards the entrance of the port.  The rays of the moon fell upon the broad surface of those sides of their canvas which were nearest to the town, and they resembled so many spotless clouds, sweeping the water and floating seaward.

“They are sending my wife to Dalmatia!” cried Don Camillo, like a man on whom the truth began to dawn.

“Signore mio!” exclaimed the astonished Gino.

“I tell thee, sirrah, that this accursed Senate hath plotted against my happiness, and having robbed me of thy mistress, hath employed one of the many feluccas that I see, to transport her to some of its strongholds on the eastern coast of the Adriatic.”

“Blessed Maria!  Signor Duca, and my honored master; they say that the very images of stone in Venice have ears, and that the horses of bronze will kick, if an evil word is spoken against those up above.”

“Is it not enough, varlet, to draw curses from the meek Job, to rob him of a wife?  Hast thou no feeling for thy mistres?’

“I did not dream, eccellenza, that you were so happy as to have the one, or that I was so honored as to have the other.”

“Thou remindest me of my folly, good Gino.  In aiding me on this occasion, thou wilt have thy own fortune in view, as thy efforts, like those of thy fellows, will be made in behalf of the lady to whom I have just plighted a husband’s vows.”

“San Theodoro help us all, and hint what is to be done!  The lady is most happy, Signor Don Camillo, and if I only knew by what name to mention her she should never be forgotten in any prayer that so humble a sinner might dare to offer.”

“Thou hast not forgotten the beautiful lady I drew from the Giudecca?”

“Corpo di Bacco!  Your eceellenza floated like a swan, and swam faster than a gull.  Forgotten!  Signore, no,—­I think of it every time I hear a plash in the canals, and every time I think of it I curse the Ancona-man in my heart.  St. Theodore forgive me if it be unlike a Christian to do so.  But, though we all tell marvels of what our Lord did in the Giudecca, the dip of its waters is not the marriage ceremony, nor can we speak with much certainty of beauty that was seen to so great disadvantage.”