“If the illustrious senators here present will unmask, I may answer that question, haply, with greater confidence,” he said.

“Thy request is bold and out of rule.  None know the persons of the patricians who preside over the destinies of the state.  Dost thou confess the crime?”

The entrance of an officer, in some haste, prevented a reply.  The man placed a written report in the hands of the inquisitor in red, and withdrew.  After a short pause, the guards were ordered to retire with their prisoner.

“Great senators!” said Jacopo, advancing earnestly towards the table, as if he would seize the moment to urge what he was about to say;—­“Mercy! grant me your authority to visit one in the prisons, beneath the leads!—­I have weighty reasons for the wish, and I pray you, as men and fathers, to grant it!”

The interest of the two, who were consulting apart on the new intelligence, prevented them from listening to what he urged.  The other inquisitor, who was the Signer Soranzo, had drawn near the lamp, anxious to read the lineaments of one so notorious, and was gazing at his striking countenance.  Touched by the pathos of his voice, and agreeably disappointed in the lineaments he studied, he took upon himself the power to grant the request.

“Humor his wish,” he said to the halberdiers; “but have him in readiness to reappear.”

Jacopo looked his gratitude, but fearful that the others might still interfere to prevent his wish, he hurried from the room.

The march of the little procession, which proceeded from the chamber of the inquisition to the summer cells of its victims, was sadly characteristic of the place and the government.

It went through gloomy and secret corridors, that were hid from the vulgar eye, while thin partitions only separated them from the apartments of the Doge, which, like the specious aspect of the state, concealed the nakedness and misery within, by their gorgeousness and splendor!  On reaching the attic, Jacopo stopped, and turned to his conductors.

“If you are beings of God’s forming,” he said, “take off these clanking chains, though it be but for a moment.”

The keepers regarded each other in surprise, neither offering to do the charitable office.

“I go to visit, probably for the last time,” continued the prisoner, “a bed-ridden—­I may say—­a dying father, who knows nothing of my situation,—­will ye that he should see me thus?”

The appeal which was made, more with the voice and manner, than in the words, had its effect.  A keeper removed the chains, and bade him proceed.  With a cautious tread, Jacopo advanced, and when the door was opened he entered the room alone, for none there had sufficient interest in an interview between a common Bravo and his father, to endure the glowing warmth of the place, the while.  The door was closed after him, and the room became dark.

Notwithstanding his assumed firmness, Jacopo hesitated when he found himself so suddenly introduced to the silent misery of the forlorn captive.  A hard breathing told him the situation of the pallet, but the walls, which were solid on the side of the corridor, effectually prevented the admission of light.