“Bid one of thy companions come hither; and when I touch my bell, do thou usher these visitors to my presence.”

The attendant withdrew, taking care to pass into the antechamber by doors that rendered it unnecessary to show himself too soon to those who expected his return.  The second usher quickly made his appearance, and was immediately dispatched in quest of one of the Three, who was occupied with important papers in an adjoining closet.  The senator was not slow to obey the summons, for he appeared there as a friend of the prince, having been admitted publicly, and with the customary honors.

“Here are visitors of an unusual character, Signore,” said the Doge, rising to receive him whom he had summoned in precaution to himself, “and I would have a witness of their requests.”

“Your Highness does well to make us of the Senate share your labors; though if any mistaken opinion of the necessity has led you to conceive it important to call a councillor each time a guest enters the palace——­”

“It is well, Signore,” mildly interrupted the prince, touching the bell.  “I hope my importunity has not deranged you.  But here come those I expect.”

Father Anselmo and Gelsomina entered the closet together.  The first glance convinced the Doge that he received strangers.  He exchanged looks with the member of the secret council, and each saw in the other’s eye that the surprise was mutual.

When fairly in the presence, the Carmelite threw back his cowl, entirely exposing the whole of his ascetic features; while Gelsomina, awed by the rank of him who received them, shrank abashed, partly concealed by his robes.

“What means this visit?” demanded the prince, whose finger pointed to the shrinking form of the girl, while his eye rested steadily on that of the monk, “and that unusual companion?  Neither the hour, nor the mode, is customary.”

Father Anselmo stood before the Venetian sovereign for the first time.  Accustomed, like all of that region, and more especially in that age, to calculate his chances of success warily, before venturing to disburden his mind, the monk fastened a penetrating look on his interrogator.

“Illustrious prince,” he said, “we come petitioners for justice.  They who are thus commissioned had need be bold, lest they do their own character, and their righteous office, discredit.”

“Justice is the glory of St. Mark, and the happiness of his subjects.  Thy course, father, is not according to established rules and wholesome restraints, but it may have its apology—­name thy errand.”

“There is one in the cells, condemned of the public tribunals, and he must die with the return of day, unless your princely authority interfere to save him.”

“One condemned of the tribunals may merit his fate.”

“I am the ghostly adviser of the unhappy youth, and in the execution of my sacred office I have learned that he is innocent.”