Meanwhile that terrible thing which the people had vaguely feared had not come upon them; though at first they paused, half-hearted, when they passed the house of the Tintoret, where the quaint figure of “Ser-Robia,” the Pasquino of Venice, had often a bit of news that the people cared to hear, grotesquely placarded over his broad mouth.  He was a good friend to the people, Ser-Robia, and gave them many a pleasant bit of gossip to cheer their evening stroll; but it was wise not to laugh until one had heard the words, and there was often a priest or a scholar near to tell the meaning to those who could not spell it out for themselves.  Always, in these days, there was some one who could read to the people, for this was that solemn “protest” of “Leonardo Donato, by the Grace of God Doge of Venice,” etc., wherewith the most Christian Republic defied the interdict.  Here, along the Rialto, in all the public squares of Venice, on the doors of the churches,—­wherever proclamation was wont to be made,—­the people might pause and read this consoling word of Venice, instead, perchance, of some copy of the interdict which had been smuggled into the city and pasted, surreptitiously, over the Doge’s “protest,” but which those faithful Signori di Notte—­the night-watch of Venice—­were sure to destroy before the morning dawned.

“To the Most Reverend the Patriarchs, Archbishops, and Bishops of our Venetian Dominions,” said this “Protest,” “and to the Vicars, Abbots, Priors, Rectors of Parochial Churches, and other Ecclesiastical Prelates, greeting:”  forthwith proceeding to declare that “the Interdict which his Holiness was ‘said’ to have published was null and void, and forbidden to be observed—­not having been incurred by any fault of Venice.”

But even those who could not read soon recognized the features of that message, which met them everywhere, hiding the scars of other messages which they must not see.

“No, no,” they said, with laughing thanks to some friendly interpreter who stood near; “it is enough; va bene—­we know it like our Ave Maria!”

But sometimes a family group came back for a word, when the others had scattered.

“Thou, Gigio, tell the good padre!” says the bright-eyed young contadina, pulling the gray sleeve of her fisherman who stands stolidly beside her.

“Si, si,” he answers indifferently, shrugging his shoulders and relapsing into silence, as he pushes his wife and mother before him for a refuge; for the men of the islands were less at home in argument with the priests than were the women of their households.

“It is thus, your Reverence,” the young woman explains cheerily.  “It is the grandmother who is afraid.  Santa Maria! how she is afraid!” She touches her forehead significantly.

The simple old woman, comprehending only that they speak of her, drops a courtesy, looking furtively about her with troubled eyes, and fumbling over her beads; the “protest” has no meaning for her, although it is written in good Venetian.