this canal, eloquently proclaiming the nature of the government by the close approximation of the powers of legislation and of punishment.  The famous Bridge of Sighs is the material, and we might add the metaphorical, link between the two.  The latter edifice stands on the quay, also, and though less lofty and spacious, in point of architectural beauty it is the superior structure, though the quaintness and unusual style of the palace are most apt to attract attention.

The masked gondolier soon reappeared beneath the arch of the water-gate, and with a hurried step he sought his boat.  It required but a minute to cross the canal, to land on the opposite quay, and to enter the public door of the prison.  It would seem that he had some secret means of satisfying the vigilance of the different keepers, for bolts were drawn, and doors unlocked, with little question, wherever he presented himself.  In this manner he quickly passed all the outer barriers of the place, and reached a part of the building which had the appearance of being fitted for the accommodation of a family.  Judging from the air of all around him, those who dwelt there took the luxury of their abode but little into the account, though neither the furniture nor the rooms were wanting in most of the necessaries suited to people of their class and the climate, and in that age.

The gondolier had ascended a private stairway, and he was now before a door which had none of those signs of a prison that so freely abounded in other parts of the building.  He paused to listen, and then tapped with singular caution.

“Who is without?” asked a gentle female voice, at the same instant that the latch moved and fell again, as if she within waited to be assured of the character of her visitor before she opened the door.

“A friend to thee, Gelsomina,” was the answer.

“Nay, here all are friends to the keepers, if words can be believed.  You must name yourself, or go elsewhere for your answer.”

The gondolier removed the mask a little, which had altered his voice as well as concealed his face.

“It is I, Gessina,” he said, using the diminutive of her name.

The bolts grated, and the door was hurriedly opened.

“It is wonderful that I did not know thee, Carlo!” said the female, with eager simplicity; “but thou takest so many disguises of late, and so counterfeitest strange voices, that thine own mother might have distrusted her ear.”

The gondolier paused to make certain they were alone; then laying aside the mask altogether, he exposed the features of the Bravo.

“Thou knowest the need of caution,” he added, “and wilt not judge me harshly.”

“I said not that, Carlo—­but thy voice is so familiar, that I thought it wonderful thou could’st speak as a stranger.”

“Hast thou aught for me?”

The gentle girl—­for she was both young and gentle—­hesitated.