He had addressed an honest shop-keeper of a distant quarter.  The man took the scroll, and good-naturedly commenced reading its contents aloud.  “I am called away, and cannot meet thee, Jacopo!” At the name of Jacopo, the tradesman dropped the paper and fled.

The Bravo walked slowly back again towards the quay, ruminating on the awkward accident which had crossed his plans; his elbow was touched, and a masker confronted him when he turned.

“Thou art Jacopo Frontoni?” said the stranger.

“None else.”

“Thou hast a hand to serve an employer faithfully?”

“I keep my faith.”

“’Tis well, thou wilt find a hundred sequins in this sack.”

“Whose life is set against this gold?” asked Jacopo, in an under tone.

“Don Camillo Monforte.”

“Don Camillo Monforte!”

“The same; dost thou know the rich noble!”

“You have well described him, Signore.  He would pay his barber this for letting blood.”

“Do thy job thoroughly, and the price shall be doubled.”

“I want the security of a name.  I know you not, Signore.”

The stranger looked cautiously around him, and raising his mask for an instant, he showed the countenance of Giacomo Gradenigo.

“Is the pledge sufficient?”

“Signore, it is.  When must this deed be done?”

“This night.  Nay, this hour, even.”

“Shall I strike a noble of his rank in his palace—­in his very pleasures?”

“Come hither, Jacopo, and thou shalt know more.  Hast thou a mask?”

The Bravo signified his assent.

“Then keep thy face behind a cloud, for it is not in favor here, and seek thy boat.  I will join thee.”

The young patrician, whose form was effectually concealed by his attire, quitted his companion, with a view of rejoining him anew, where his person should not be known.  Jacopo forced his boat from among the crowd at the quay, and having entered the open space between the tiers, he lay on his oar, well knowing that he was watched, and that he would soon be followed.  His conjecture was right, for in a few moments a gondola pulled swiftly to the side of his own, and two men in masks passed from the strange boat into that of the Bravo, without speaking.

“To the Lido,” said a voice, which Jacopo knew to be that of his new employer.

He was obeyed, the boat of Giacomo Gradenigo following at a little distance.  When they were without the tiers, and consequently beyond the danger of being overheard, the two passengers came out of the pavilion, and made a sign to the Bravo to cease rowing.

“Thou wilt accept the service, Jacopo Frontoni?” demanded the profligate heir of the old senator.

“Shall I strike the noble in his pleasures, Signore?”

“It is not necessary.  We have found means to lure him from his palace, and he is now in thy power, with no other hope than that which may come from his single arm and courage.  Wilt thou take the service?”