“Signore, ’tis not Battista.”

As he spoke, the stranger faced the moon, in a manner that threw all of its mild light upon his features.

“Jacopo!” exclaimed the duke, recoiling, as did all in Venice habitually, when that speaking eye was unexpectedly met.

“Signore—­Jacopo.”

In a moment the rapier of Don Camillo glittered in the rays of the moon.

“Keep thy distance, fellow, and explain the motive that hath brought thee thus across my solitude!”

The Bravo smiled, but his arms maintained their fold.

“I might, with equal justice, call upon the Duke of Sant’ Agata to furnish reasons why he wanders at this hour among the Hebrew graves.”

“Nay, spare thy pleasantry; I trifle not with men of thy reputation; if any in Venice have thought fit to employ thee against my person, thou wilt have need of all thy courage and skill ere thou earnest thy fee.”

“Put up thy rapier, Don Camillo, here is none to do you harm.  Think you, if employed in the manner you name, I would be in this spot to seek you?  Ask yourself whether your visit here was known, or whether it was more than the idle caprice of a young noble, who finds his bed less easy than his gondola.  We have met, Duke of Sant’ Agata, when you distrusted my honor less.”

“Thou speakest true, Jacopo,” returned the noble, suffering the point of his rapier to fall from before the breast of the Bravo, though he still hesitated to withdraw the weapon.  “Thou sayest the truth.  My visit to this spot is indeed accidental, and thou could’st not have possibly foreseen it.  Why art thou here?”

“Why are these here?” demanded Jacopo, pointing to the graves at his feet.  “We are born, and we die—­that much is known to us all; but the when and the where are mysteries, until time reveals them.”

“Thou art not a man to act without good motive.  Though these Israelites could not foresee their visit to the Lido, thine hath not been without intention.”

“I am here, Don Camillo Monforte, because my spirit hath need of room.  I want the air of the sea—­the canals choke me—­I can only breathe in freedom on this bank of sand!”

“Thou hast another reason, Jacopo?”

“Aye, Signore—­I loathe yon city of crimes!”

As the Bravo spoke, he shook his hand in the direction of the domes of St. Mark, and the deep tones of his voice appeared to heave up from the depths of his chest.

“This is extraordinary language for a——­”

“Bravo; speak the word boldly, Signore—­it is no stranger to my ears.  But even the stiletto of a Bravo is honorable, compared to that sword of pretended justice which St. Mark wields!  The commonest hireling of Italy—­he who will plant his dagger in the heart of his friend for two sequins, is a man of open dealing, compared to the merciless treachery of some in yonder town!”

“I understand thee, Jacopo; thou art, at length, proscribed.  The public voice, faint as it is in the Republic, has finally reached the ears of thy employers, and they withdraw their protection.”