“Thou art right, Gino.  But that lady, the illustrious Donna Violetta Tiepolo, the daughter and heiress of a famed senator, is now thy mistress.  It remains for us to establish her in the Castle of Sant’ Agata, where I shall defy Venice and its agents.”

Gino bowed his head in submission, though he cast a look behind to make sure that none of those agents, whom his master set so openly at defiance, were within ear-shot.

In the meantime the gondola proceeded, for the dialogue in no manner interrupted the exertions of Gino, still holding the direction of the Lido.  As the land-breeze freshened, the different vessels in sight glided away, and by the time Don Camillo reached the barrier of sand which separates the Lagunes from the Adriatic, most of them had glided through the passages, and were now shaping their courses, according to their different destinations, across the open gulf.  The young noble had permitted his people to pursue the direction originally taken, in pure indecision.  He was certain that his bride was in one of the many barques in sight, but he possessed no clue to lead him towards the right one, nor any sufficient means of pursuit were he even master of that important secret.  When he landed, therefore, it was with the simple hope of being able to form some general conjecture as to the portion of the Republic’s dominions in which he might search for her he had lost, by observing to what part of the Adriatic the different feluccas held their way.  He had determined on immediate pursuit, however, and before he quitted the gondola, he once more turned to his confidential gondolier to give the necessary instructions.

“Thou knowest, Gino,” he said, “that there is one born a vassal on my estates, here in the port, with a felucca from the Sorrentine shore?”

“I know the man better than I know my own faults Signore, or even my own virtues.”

“Go to him at once, and make sure of his presence.  I have imagined a plan to decoy him into the service of his lord; but I would now know the condition of his vessel.”

Gino said a few words in commendation of the zeal of his friend Stefano, and in praise of the Bella Sorrentina, as the gondola receded from the shore; and then he dashed his oar into the water, like a man in earnest to execute the commission.

There is a lonely spot on the Lido di Palestrina where Catholic exclusion has decreed that the remains of all who die in Venice, without the pale of the church of Rome, shall moulder into their kindred dust.  Though it is not distant from the ordinary landing and the few buildings which line the shore, it is a place that, in itself, is no bad emblem of a hopeless lot.  Solitary, exposed equally to the hot airs of the south and the bleak blasts of the Alps, frequently covered with the spray of the Adriatic, and based on barren sands, the utmost that human art, aided by a soil which has been fattened by human remains,