“The ears of his highness, and of the Councils, have not been closed to these reports, but they have long attended to the rumors with the earnestness which becomes a paternal and careful government.  If they have suffered thee to go at large, it hath only been that there might be no hazard of sullying the ermine of justice, by a premature and not sufficiently supported judgment.”

Jacopo bent his head, but without speaking.  A smile so wild and meaning, however, gleamed on his face at this declaration, that the permanent officer of the secret tribunal, he who served as its organ of communication, bowed nearly to the paper he held, as it might be to look deeper into his documents.  Let not the reader turn back to this page in surprise, when he shall have reached the explanation of the tale, for mysticisms quite as palpable, if not of so ruthless a character, have been publicly acted by political bodies in his own times.

“There is now a specific and a frightful charge brought against thee, Jacopo Frontoni,” continued the secretary; “and, in tenderness of the citizen’s life, the dreaded Council itself hath taken the matter in hand.  Didst thou know a certain Antonio Vecchio, a fisherman here in our Lagunes?”

“Signore, I knew him well of late, and much regret that it was only of late.”

“Thou knowest, too, that his body hath been found, drowned in the bay?”

Jacopo shuddered, signifying his assent merely by a sign.  The effect of this tacit acknowledgment on the youngest of the three was apparent, for he turned to his companions, like one struck by the confession it implied.  His colleagues made dignified inclinations in return, and the silent communication ceased.

“His death has excited discontent among his fellows, and its cause has become a serious subject of inquiry for the illustrious Council.”

“The death of the meanest man in Venice should call forth the care of the patricians, Signore.”

“Dost thou know, Jacopo, that thou art accused of being his murderer?”

“Signore, I do.”

“It is said that thou earnest among the gondoliers in the late regatta, and that, but for this aged fisherman, thou would’st have been winner of the prize?”

“In that, rumor hath not lied, Signore.”

“Thou dost not, then, deny the charge!” said the examiner, in evident surprise.

“It is certain that, but for the fisherman, I should have been the winner.”

“And thou wished it, Jacopo?”

“Signore, greatly,” returned the accused, with a show of emotion, that had not hitherto escaped him.  “I was a man condemned of his fellows, and the oar had been my pride, from childhood to that hour.”

Another movement of the third inquisitor betrayed equally his interest and his surprise.

“Dost thou confess the crime?”

Jacopo smiled, but more in derision than with any other feeling.