“There is no lack of seeming justice in Venice, Antonio; the want is in the substance.  I doubt not thou would’st be heard.”

“Then will I wait, here, upon the stones of the square, until he comes forth for the pomp of to-morrow, and try to move his heart to justice.  He is old, like myself, and he hath bled, too, for the state, and what is more he is a father.”

“So is the Signor Gradenigo.”

“Thou doubtest his pity—­ha?”

“Thou canst but try.  The Doge of Venice will hearken to a petition from the meanest citizen.  I think,” added Jacopo, speaking so low as to be scarcely audible, “he would listen even to me.”

“Though I am not able to put my prayer in such speech as becometh the ear of a great prince, he shall hear the truth from a wronged man.  They call him the chosen of the state, and such a one should gladly listen to justice.  This is a hard bed, Jacopo,” continued the fisherman, seating himself at the foot of the column of St. Theodore, “but I have slept on colder and as hard, when there was less reason to do it—­a happy night.”

The bravo lingered a minute near the old man, who folded his arms on his naked breast, which was fanned by the sea-breeze, and disposed of his person to take his rest in the square, a practice not unusual among men of his class; but when he found that Antonio was inclined to be alone, he moved on, leaving the fisherman to himself.

The night was now getting to be advanced, and few of the revellers remained in the areas of the two squares.  Jacopo cast a glance around, and noting the hour and the situation of the place, he proceeded to the edge of the quay.  The public gondoliers had left their boats moored, as usual, at this spot, and a profound stillness reigned over the whole bay.  The water was scarce darkened by the air, which rather breathed upon than ruffled its surface, and no sound of oar was audible amid the forest of picturesque and classical spars, which crowded the view between the Piazzetta and the Giudecca.  The Bravo hesitated, cast another wary glance around him, settled his mask, undid the slight fastenings of a boat, and presently he was gliding away into the centre of the basin.

“Who cometh?” demanded one, who seemingly stood at watch, in a felucca, anchored a little apart from all others.

“One expected,” was the answer.

“Roderigo?”

“The same.”

“Thou art late,” said the mariner of Calabria, as Jacopo stepped upon the low deck of the Bella Sorrentina.  “My people have long been below, and I have dreamt thrice of shipwreck, and twice of a heavy sirocco, since thou hast been expected.”

“Thou hast had more time to wrong the customs.  Is the felucca ready for her work?”

“As for the customs, there is little chance of gain in this greedy city.  The senators secure all profits to themselves and their friends, while we of the barks are tied down to low freights and hard bargains.  I have sent a dozen casks of lachryma christi up the canals since the masquers came abroad, and beyond that I have not occasion.  There is enough left for thy comfort, at need.  Wilt drink?”