Gelsomina continued to lead the way with a sadness of eye and feature that betrayed her strong sympathy with the sufferings of her companion, but without appearing to think further delay necessary.  She had communicated a circumstance which weighed heavily on her own mind, and, like most of her mild temperament, who had dreaded such a duty, now that it was discharged she experienced a sensible relief.  They ascended many flights of steps, opened and shut numberless doors, and threaded several narrow corridors in silence, before reaching the place of destination.  While Gelsomina sought the key of the door before which they stopped, in the large bunch she carried, the Bravo breathed the hot air of the attic like one who was suffocating.

“They promised me that this should not be done again!” he said.  “But they forget their pledges, fiends as they are!”

“Carlo! thou forgettest that this is the palace of the Doge!” whispered the girl, while she threw a timid glance behind her.

“I forget nothing that is connected with the Republic!  It is all here,” striking his flushed brow—­“what is not there, is in my heart!”

“Poor Carlo! this cannot last for ever—­there will be an end!”

“Thou art right,” answered the Bravo hoarsely.  “The end is nearer than thou thinkest.  No matter; turn the key, that we may go in.”

The hand of Gelsomina lingered on the lock, but admonished by his impatient eye, she complied, and they entered the cell.

“Father!” exclaimed the Bravo, hastening to the side of a pallet that lay on the floor.

The attenuated and feeble form of an old man rose at the word, and an eye which, while it spoke mental feebleness, was at that moment even brighter than that of his son, glared on the faces of Gelsomina and her companion.

“Thou hast not suffered, as I had feared, by this sudden change, father!” continued the latter, kneeling by the side of the straw.  “Thine eye, and cheek, and countenance are better, than in the damp caves below!”

“I am happy here,” returned the prisoner; “there is light, and though they have given me too much of it, thou canst never know, my boy, the joy of looking at the day, after so long a night.”

“He is better, Gelsomina.  They have not yet destroyed him.  See! his eye is bright even, and his cheek has a glow!”

“They are ever so, after passing the winter in the lower dungeons,” whispered the gentle girl.

“Hast thou news for me, boy?  What tidings from thy mother?”

Jacopo bowed his head to conceal the anguish occasioned by this question, which he now heard for the hundredth time.

“She is happy, father—­happy as one can be, who so well loves thee, when away from thy side.”

“Does she speak of me often?”

“The last word that I heard from her lips, was thy name.”

“Holy Maria bless her!  I trust she remembers me in her prayers?”