“I know not, children, what end this interview can answer,” continued the monk.  “I am sent hither to receive the last confession of a Bravo, and surely, one who has so much cause to condemn the deception he has practised, would not wish to hear the details of such a life?”

“No—­no—­no—­” murmured Gelsomina again, enforcing her words with a wild gesture of the hand.

“It is better, father, that she should believe me all that her fancy can imagine as monstrous,” said Jacopo, in a thick voice:  “she will then learn to hate my memory.”

Gelsomina did not speak, but the negative gesture was repeated franticly.

“The heart of the poor child hath been sorely touched,” said the Carmelite, with concern.  “We must not treat so tender a flower rudely.  Hearken to me, daughter, and consult thy reason, more than thy weakness.”

“Question her not, father; let her curse me, and depart.”

“Carlo!” shrieked Gelsomina.

A long pause succeeded.  The monk perceived that human passion was superior to his art, and that the case must be left to time; while the prisoner maintained within himself a struggle more fierce than any which it had yet been his fate to endure.  The lingering desires of the world conquered, and he broke silence.

“Father,” he said, advancing to the length of his chain, and speaking both solemnly and with dignity, “I had hoped—­I had prayed that this unhappy but innocent creature might have turned from her own weakness with loathing, when she came to know that the man she loved was a Bravo.  But I did injustice to the heart of woman!  Tell me, Gelsomina, and as thou valuest thy salvation deceive me not—­canst thou look at me without horror?”

Gelsomina trembled, but she raised her eyes, and smiled on him as the weeping infant returns the earnest and tender regard of its mother.  The effect of that glance on Jacopo was so powerful that his sinewy frame shook, until the wondering Carmelite heard the clanking of his chains.

“’Tis enough,” he said, struggling to command himself, “Gelsomina, thou shalt hear my confession.  Thou hast long been mistress of one great secret, none other shall be hid from thee.”

“Antonio!” gasped the girl.  “Carlo!  Carlo! what had that aged fisherman done that thy hand should seek his life?”

“Antonio!” echoed the monk; “dost thou stand charged with his death, my son?”

“It is the crime for which I am condemned to die.”

The Carmelite sank upon the stool of the prisoner, and sat motionless, looking with an eye of horror from the countenance of the unmoved Jacopo to that of his trembling companion.  The truth began to dawn upon him, though his mind was still enveloped in the web of Venetian mystery.

“Here is some horrible mistake!” he whispered.  “I will hasten to thy judges and undeceive them.”

The prisoner smiled calmly, as he reached out a hand to arrest the zealous movement of the simple Carmelite.