“Distrust us not—­but thou, my excellent Jacopo—­what wilt thou become in their hands?”

“Fear not for me, Signore.  God disposes of all as he sees fit.  I have told your eccellenza that I cannot yet quit Venice.  If fortune favor me, I may still see your stout castle of Sant’ Agata.”

“And none will be more welcome within its secure walls; I have much fear for thee, Jacopo!”

“Signore, think not of it.  I am used to danger—­and to misery—­and to hopelessness.  I have known a pleasure this night, in witnessing the happiness of two young hearts, that God, in his anger, has long denied me.  Lady, the Saints keep you, and God, who is above all, shield you from harm!”

He kissed the hand of Donna Violetta, who, half ignorant still of his services, listened to his words in wonder.

“Don Camillo Monforte,” he continued, “distrust Venice to your dying day.  Let no promises—­no hopes—­no desire of increasing your honors or your riches, ever tempt you to put yourself in her power.  None know the falsehood of the state better than I, and with my parting words I warn you to be wary!”

“Thou speakest as if we were to meet no more, worthy Jacopo!”

The Bravo turned, and the action brought his features to the moon.  There was a melancholy smile, in which deep satisfaction at the success of the lovers was mingled with serious forebodings for himself.

“We are certain only of the past,” he said in a low voice.

Touching the hand of Don Camillo, he kissed his own and leaped hastily into his gondola.  The fast was thrown loose, and the felucca glided away, leaving this extraordinary being alone on the waters.  The Neapolitan ran to the taffrail, and the last he saw of Jacopo, the Bravo, was rowing leisurely back towards that scene of violence and deception from which he himself was so glad to have escaped.

CHAPTER XXVI.

“My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,
But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon’s spoil,
And mine hath been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are banned, and barred—­forbidden fare.” 
Prisoner of chillon.

When the day dawned on the following morning the square of St. Mark was empty.  The priests still chanted their prayers for the dead near the body of old Antonio, and a few fishermen still lingered in and near the cathedral, but half persuaded of the manner in which their companion had come to his end.  But as was usual at that hour of the day the city appeared tranquil, for though a slight alarm had passed through the canals at the movement of the rioters, it had subsided in that specious and distrustful quiet, which is more or less the unavoidable consequence of a system that is not substantially based on the willing support of the mass.