moments of ease, as a welcome sharer in this vain distinction.  He entered the Broglio at the wonted hour, and with his usual composure, for he trusted to his secret influence at Rome, and something to the success of his rivals, for impunity.  Reflection had shown Don Camillo that, as his plans were known to the council, they would long since have arrested him had such been their intention; and it had also led him to believe that the most efficient manner of avoiding the personal consequences of his adventure was to show confidence in his own power to withstand them.  When he appeared, therefore, leaning on the arm of a high officer of the papal embassy, and with an eye that spoke assurance in himself, he was greeted, as usual, by all who knew him, as was due to his rank and expectations.  Still Don Camillo walked among the patricians of the Republic with novel sensations.  More than once he thought he detected, in the wandering glances of those with whom he conversed, signs of their knowledge of his frustrated attempt; and more than once, when he least suspected such scrutiny, his countenance was watched, as if the observer sought some evidence of his future intentions.  Beyond this none might have discovered that an heiress of so much importance had been so near being lost to the state, or, on the other hand, that a bridegroom had been robbed of his bride.  Habitual art, on the part of the state, and resolute but wary intention, on the part of the young noble, concealed all else from observation.

In this manner the day passed, not a tongue in Venice, beyond those which whispered in secret, making any allusion to the incidents of our tale.

Just as the sun was setting a gondola swept slowly up to the water-gate of the ducal palace.  The gondolier landed, fastened his boat in the usual manner to the stepping-stones, and entered the court.  He wore a mask, for the hour of disguise had come, and his attire was so like the ordinary fashion of men of his class, as to defeat recognition by its simplicity.  Glancing an eye about him, he entered the building by a private door.

The edifice in which the Doges of Venice dwelt still stands a gloomy monument of the policy of the Republic, furnishing evidence, in itself, of the specious character of the prince whom it held.  It is built around a vast but gloomy court, as is usual with nearly all of the principal edifices of Europe.  One of its fronts forms a side of the piazzetta so often mentioned, and another lines the quay next the port.  The architecture of these two exterior faces of the palace renders the structure remarkable.  A low portico, which forms the Broglio, sustains a row of massive oriental windows, and above these again lies a pile of masonry, slightly relieved by apertures, which reverses the ordinary uses of the art.  A third front is nearly concealed by the cathedral of St. Mark, and the fourth is washed by its canal.  The public prison of the city forms the other side of