Paolo Soranzo secretly hoped she was in the arms of the Neapolitan.

“A secretary has communicated to me the disappearance of the Duca di Sant’ Agata also,” observed the third; “nor is the felucca, usually employed in distant and delicate missions, any longer at her anchors.”

The two old men regarded each other as if the truth was beginning to dawn upon their suspicions.  They saw that the case was hopeless, and as theirs was altogether a practical duty, no time was lost in useless regrets.

“We have two affairs which press,” observed the elder.  “The body of the old fisherman must be laid quietly in the earth with as little risk of future tumult as may be; and we have this notorious Jacopo to dispose of.”

“The latter must first be taken,” said the Signor Soranzo.

“That has been done already.  Would you think it, Sirs he was seized in the very palace of the Doge!”

“To the block with him without delay!”

The old men again looked at each other, and it was quite apparent that, as both of them had been in previous councils, they had a secret intelligence, to which their companion was yet a stranger.  There was also visible in their glances something like a design to manage his feelings before they came more openly to the graver practices of their duties.

“For the sake of blessed St. Mark, Signori, let justice be done openly in this instance!” continued the unsuspecting member of the Three.  “What pity can the bearer of a common stiletto claim? and what more lovely exercise of our authority than to make public an act of severe and much-required justice?”

The old senators bowed to this sentiment of their colleague, which was uttered with the fervor of young experience, and the frankness of an upright mind; for there is a conventional acquiescence in received morals which is permitted, in semblance at least, to adorn the most tortuous.

“It may be well, Signore Soranzo, to do this homage to the right,” returned the elder.  “Here have been sundry charges found in different lions’ mouths against the Neapolitan, Signor Don Camillo Monforte.  I leave it to your wisdom, my illustrious colleagues, to decide on their character.”

“An excess of malice betrays its own origin,” exclaimed the least practised member of the Inquisition.  “My life on it, Signori, these accusations come of private spleen, and are unworthy of the state’s attention.  I have consorted much with the young lord of Sant’ Agata, and a more worthy gentleman does not dwell among us.”

“Still hath he designs on the hand of old Tiepolo’s daughter!”

“Is it a crime in youth to seek beauty?  He did great service to the lady in her need, and that youth should feel these sympathies is nothing strange.”

“Venice hath her sympathies, as well as the youngest of us all, Signore.”

“But Venice cannot wed the heiress!”