The clamor ceased, and a herald proclaimed aloud the commencement of a new and different struggle.  The last, and what might be termed the national race, had been limited by an ancient usage to the known and recognised gondoliers of Venice.  The prize had been awarded by the state, and the whole affair had somewhat of an official and political character.  It was now announced, however, that a race was to be run, in which the reward was open to all competitors, without question as to their origin, or as to their ordinary occupations.  An oar of gold, to which was attached a chain of the same precious metal, was exhibited as the boon of the Doge to him who showed most dexterity and strength in this new struggle; while a similar ornament of silver was to be the portion of him who showed the second-best dexterity and bottom.  A mimic boat of less precious metal was the third prize.  The gondolas were to be the usual light vehicles of the canals, and as the object was to display the peculiar skill of that city of islands, but one oarsman was allowed to each, on whom would necessarily fall the whole duty of guiding, while he impelled his little bark.  Any of those who had been engaged in the previous trial were admitted to this; and all desirous of taking part in the new struggle were commanded to come beneath the stern of the Bucentaur within a prescribed number of minutes, that note might be had of their wishes.  As notice of this arrangement had been previously given, the interval between the two races was not long.

The first who came out of the crowd of boats which environed the vacant place that had been left for the competitors, was a gondolier of the public landing, well known for his skill with the oar, and his song on the canal.

“How art thou called, and in whose name dost thou put thy chance?” demanded the herald of this aquatic course.

“All know me for Bartolomeo, one who lives between the Piazzetta and the Lido, and, like a loyal Venetian, I trust in San Teodoro.”

“Thou art well protected; take thy place and await thy fortune.”

The conscious waterman swept the water with a back stroke of his blade, and the light gondola whirled away into the centre of the vacant spot, like a swan giving a sudden glance aside.

“And who art thou?” demanded the official of the next that came.

“Enrico, a gondolier of Fusina.  I come to try my oar with the braggarts of the canals.”

“In whom is thy trust?”

“Sant’ Antonio di Padua?”

“Thou wilt need his aid, though we commend thy spirit.  Enter, and take place.”—­“And who art thou?” he continued, to another, when the second had imitated the easy skill of the first.

“I am called Gino of Calabria, a gondolier in private service.”

“What noble retaineth thee?”

“The illustrious and most excellent Don Camillo Monforte, Duca and Lord of Sant’ Agata in Napoli, and of right a senator in Venice.”