If success gives force and increases the physical and moral energies, there is a fearful and certain reaction in defeat.  The follower of Don Camillo was no exception to the general law, and when the masked competitor passed him the boat of Antonio followed as if it were impelled by the same strokes.  The distance between the two leading gondolas even now seemed to lessen, and there was a moment of breathless interest when all there expected to see the fisherman, in despite of his years and boat, shooting past his rival.

But expectation was deceived.  He of the mask, notwithstanding his previous efforts, seemed to sport with the toil, so ready was the sweep of his oar, so sure its stroke, and so vigorous the arm by which it was impelled.  Nor was Antonio an antagonist to despise.  If there was less of the grace of a practised gondolier of the canals in his attitudes than in those of his companion, there was no relaxation in the force of his sinews.  They sustained him to the last with that enduring power which had been begotten by threescore years of unremitting labor, and while his still athletic form was exerted to the utmost there appeared no failing of its energies.

A few moments sent the leading gondolas several lengths ahead of their nearest followers.  The dark beak of the fisherman’s boat hung upon the quarter of the more showy bark of his antagonist, but it could do no more.  The port was open before them, and they glanced by church, palace, barge, mystick, and felucca, without the slightest inequality in their relative speed.  The masked waterman glanced a look behind as if to calculate his advantage, and then bending again to his pliant oar he spoke, loud enough to be heard only by him who pressed so hard upon his track.

“Thou hast deceived me, fisherman!” he said—­“there is more of manhood in thee yet than I had thought.”

“If there is manhood in my arms there is childlessness and sorrow at the heart,” was the reply.

“Dost thou so prize a golden bauble?  Thou art second; be content with thy lot.”

“It will not do; I must be foremost or I have wearied my old limbs in vain!”

This brief dialogue was uttered with an ease that showed how far use had accustomed both to powerful bodily efforts, and with a firmness of tones that few could have equalled in a moment of so great physical effort.  The masker was silent, but his purpose seemed to waver.  Twenty strokes of his powerful oar-blade and the goal was attained:  but his sinews were not so much extended, and that limb which had shown so fine a development of muscle, was less swollen and rigid.  The gondola of old Antonio glided abeam.

“Push thy soul into the blade,” muttered he of the mask, “or thou wilt yet be beaten!”