“Therein lie matters exceeding my knowledge.  His master, and I may say my master, for I was born on his estates, is the young Duca di Sant’ Agata—­the same that pushes his fortunes with the senate in a claim to the riches and honors of the last Monforte that sat in thy councils.  The debate hath so long endured, that the lad hath made himself a gondolier by sheer shoving an oar between his master’s palace and those of the nobles he moves with interest—­at least such is Gino’s own history of his education.”

“I know the man.  He wears the colors of him he serves.  Is he of quick wit?”

“Signor Roderigo, all who come of Calabria cannot boast that advantage.  We are no more than our neighbors, and there are exceptions, in all communities as in all families.  Gino is ready enough with his oar, and as good a youth in his way as need be.  But as to looking into things beyond their surface, why we should not expect the delicacy of a beccafica in a goose.  Nature makes men, though kings make nobles.  Gino is a gondolier.”

“And of good skill?”

“I say nothing of his arm or his leg, both of which are well enough in their places; but when it comes to knowing men and things—­poor Gino is but a gondolier!  The lad hath a most excellent heart, and is never backward to serve a friend.  I love him, but thou would’st not have me say more than the truth will warrant.”

“Well, keep thy felucca in readiness, for we know not the moment it may be needed.”

“Thou hast only to bring thy freight, Signore, to have the bargain fulfilled.”

“Adieu.  I would recommend to thee to keep apart from all other trades, and to see that the revelries of to-morrow do not debauch thy people.”

“God speed thee, Signor Roderigo.  Naught shall be wanting.”

The Bravo stepped into his gondola, which glided from the felucca’s side with a facility which showed that an arm skilled in its use held the oar.  He waved his hand in adieu to Stefano, and then the boat disappeared among the hulls that crowded the port.

For a few minutes the padrone of the Bella Sorrentina continued to pace her decks, snuffing the fresh breeze that came in over the Lido, and then he sought his rest.  By this time the dark, silent gondolas, which had been floating by hundreds through the basin, were all gone.  The sound of music was heard no longer on the canals, and Venice, at all times noiseless and peculiar, seemed to sleep the sleep of the dead.

CHAPTER VIII.

                       “The fisher came

From his green islet, bringing o’er the waves
His wife and little one; the husbandman
From the firm land, with many a friar and nun. 
And village maiden, her first flight from home,
Crowding the common ferry.” 

          
                                                            Rogers.