“I said no more than is whispered daily on the canals.”

“I would thy father had not called thee by this terrible name, Carlo!”

“Thou art too wise to be moved by a word, Gelsomina.  But what thinkest thou of my unhappy father?”

“This visit has not been like the others thou hast made him in my company.  I know not the reason, but to me thou hast ever seemed to feel the hope with which thou hast cheered the prisoner; while now, thou seemest to have even a frightful pleasure in despair.”

“Thy fears deceive thee,” returned the Bravo, scarce speaking above his breath.  “Thy fears deceive thee, and we will say no more.  The senate mean to do us justice, at last.  They are honorable Signori, of illustrious birth, and renowned names!  ’Twould be madness to distrust the patricians!  Dost thou not know, girl, that he who is born of gentle blood is above the weaknesses and temptations that beset us of base origin!  They are men placed by birth above the weaknesses of mortals, and owing their account to none, they will be sure to do justice.  This is reasonable, and who can doubt it!”

As he ended, the Bravo laughed bitterly.

“Nay, now thou triflest with me, Carlo; none are above the danger of doing wrong, but those whom the saints and kind Maria favor.”

“This comes of living in a prison, and of saying thy prayers night and morning!  No—­no—­silly girl, there are men in the world born wise, from generation to generation; born honest, virtuous, brave, incorruptible, and fit in all things to shut up and imprison those who are born base and ignoble.  Where hast thou passed thy days, foolish Gelsomina, not to have felt this truth in the very air thou breathest?  ’Tis clear as the sun’s light, and palpable—­aye—­palpable as these prison walls!”

The timid girl recoiled from his side, and there was a moment when she meditated flight; for never before, during their numberless and confidential interviews, had she ever heard so bitter a laugh, or seen so wild a gleam in the eye of her companion.

“I could almost fancy, Carlo, that my father was right in using the name he did,” she said, as, recovering herself, she turned a reproachful look on his still excited features.

“It is the business of parents to name their children;—­but enough.  I must leave thee, good Gelsomina, and I leave thee with a heavy heart.”

The unsuspecting Gelsomina forgot her alarm.  She knew not why, but, though the imaginary Carlo seldom quitted her that she was not sad, she felt a weight heavier than common on her spirits at this declaration.

“Thou hast thy affairs, and they must not be forgotten.  Art fortunate with the gondola of late, Carlo?”

“Gold and I are nearly strangers.  The Republic throws the whole charge of the venerable prisoner on my toil.”

“I have little, as thou knowest, Carlo,” said Gelsomina in a half-audible voice; “but it is thine.  My father is not rich, as thou can’st feel, or he would not live on the sufferings of others, by holding the keys of the prison.”