Jacopo was again in the attic of the Doge’s palace, accompanied by the gentle Gelsomina.  As they threaded the windings of the building, he recounted to the eager ear of his companion all the details connected with the escape of the lovers; omitting, as a matter of prudence, the attempt of Giacomo Gradenigo on the life of Don Camillo.  The unpractised and single-hearted girl heard him in breathless attention, the color of her cheek and the changeful eye betraying the force of her sympathies at each turn in their hazardous adventure.

“And dost thou think they can yet escape from those up above?” murmured Gelsomina, for few in Venice would trust their voices, by putting such a question aloud.  “Thou knowest the Republic hath at all times its galleys in the Adriatic!”

“We have had thought of that, and the Calabrian is advised to steer for the mole of Ancona.  Once within the States of the Church the influence of Don Camillo and the rights of his noble wife will protect them.  Is there a place here whence we can look out upon the sea?”

Gelsomina led the Bravo into an empty room of the attic which commanded a view of the port, the Lido, and the waste of water beyond.  The breeze came in strong currents over the roofs of the town, and causing the masts of the port to rock, it lighted on the Lagunes, without the tiers of the shipping.  From this point to the barrier of sand, it was apparent by the stooping sails and the struggles of the gondoliers who pulled towards the quay, that the air was swift.  Without the Lido itself, the element was shadowed and fitful, while further in the distance the troubled waters, with their crests of foam, sufficiently proved its power.

“Santa Maria be praised!” exclaimed Jacopo, when his understanding eye had run over the near and distant view—­“they are already far down the coast, and with a wind like this they cannot fail to reach their haven in a few hours.  Let us go to the cell.”

Gelsomina smiled when he assured her of the safety of the fugitives, but her look saddened when he changed the discourse.  Without reply, however, she did as he desired, and in a very few moments they were standing by the side of the prisoner’s pallet.  The latter did not appear to observe their entrance, and Jacopo was obliged to announce himself.

“Father!” he said, with that melancholy pathos which always crept into his voice when he addressed the old man, “it is I.”

The prisoner turned, and though, evidently much enfeebled since the last visit, a wan smile gleamed on his wasted features.

“And thy mother, boy?” he asked, so eagerly as to cause Gelsomina to turn hastily aside.

“Happy, father—­happy.”

“Happy without me?”

“She is ever with thee in spirit, father.  She thinks of thee in her prayers.  Thou hast a saint for an intercessor in my mother—­father.”

“And thy good sister?”

“Happy too—­doubt it not, father.  They are both patient and resigned.”