“Carlo!” had half burst from her lips, but another sign suppressed the cry.

Gelsomina withdrew her head, and, after her beating heart had ceased to throb, she bowed her face and murmured thanksgivings at finding herself, at such a moment, under the protection of one who possessed all her confidence.

The gondolier asked no orders for his direction.  The boat moved on, taking the direction of the port, which appeared perfectly natural to the two females.

Annina supposed it was returning to the square, the place she would have sought had she been alone, and Gelsomina, who believed that he whom she called Carlo, toiled regularly as a gondolier for support, fancied, of course, that he was taking her to her ordinary residence.

But though the innocent can endure the scorn of the world, it is hard indeed to be suspected by those they love.  All that Annina had told her of the character of Don Camillo and his associates came gradually across the mind of the gentle Gelsomina, and she felt the blood creeping to her temples, as she saw the construction her lover might put on her conduct.  A dozen times did the artless girl satisfy herself with saying inwardly, “he knows me and will believe the best,” and as often did her feelings prompt her to tell the truth.  Suspense is far more painful, at such moments, than even vindication, which, in itself, is a humiliating duty to the virtuous.  Pretending a desire to breathe the air, she left her cousin in the canopy.  Annina was not sorry to be alone, for she had need to reflect on all the windings of the sinuous path on which she had entered.

Gelsomina succeeded in passing the pavilion, and in gaining the side of the gondolier.

“Carlo!”—­she said, observing that he continued to row in silence.

“Gelsomina!”

“Thou hast not questioned me!”

“I know thy treacherous cousin, and can believe thou art her dupe.  The moment to learn the truth will come.”

“Thou didst not know me, Carlo, when I called thee from the bridge?”

“I did not.  Any fare that would occupy my time was welcome.”

“Why dost thou call Annina treacherous?”

“Because Venice does not hold a more wily heart, or a falser tongue.”

Gelsomina remembered the warning of Donna Florinda.  Possessed of the advantage of blood, and that reliance which the inexperienced always place in the integrity of their friends, until exposure comes to destroy the illusion, Annina had found it easy to persuade her cousin of the unworthiness of her guests.  But here was one who had all her sympathies, who openly denounced Annina herself.  In such a dilemma the bewildered girl did what nature and her feelings suggested.  She recounted, in a low but rapid voice, the incidents of the evening, and Annina’s construction of the conduct of the females whom she had left behind in the prison.

Jacopo listened so intently that his oar dragged in the water.