So, chiefly because it had been Marina’s will, Piero had waived his unwillingness and become the central figure in the imposing ceremony of the election of the gastaldo grande of the Nicolotti, who were, indeed, almost nobles by antiquity and prestige, not only claiming among themselves the coveted title of nobili, but, under the sanction of the government, electing their gastaldo with a degree of ceremonial granted only to high officials, and prescribed in very ancient books of the laws of the traghetti.  One of the ducal secretaries, having received official notice of the vacancy of the office carried in person before the Senate by the oldest man of the Nicolotti, came, in purple state, to preside over the election when the bell of San Nicolo had tolled forth the call—­taking his seat among the twelve electoral presidents who, already chosen by the people, awaited him, having sworn the inevitable oath of impartiality and fealty to the Republic; they sat behind locked doors until the election was brought to a close—­in that solemn semblance of a ducal election which could not fail to impress the people—­with complicated, time-using ballotings, and comings and goings of candidates from adjoining chambers to express their views of the responsibilities of the office, or to defend themselves against the freely invited attacks of opponents or malcontents.

And for once Piero had uttered opinions, however clumsily, upon “government” and “reform” from the pulpit of San Nicolo, in the dignified and interested presence of a ducal secretary, the bancali, and the disconcerting throng of gondoliers who were intolerant of speeches and impatient for their vote; and he had retired shamefacedly, like an awkward boy, while his jejune remarks were elaborately discussed by the judges.  And because his views—­if he had any—­had not been over-luminously set forth in this his maiden oration, a party of zealous advocates had nearly caused an uproar by their irrepressible shout of “Non c’e da parlar’, ma da fare!” which was, in truth, too sure an indication of the temper of the people to be ignored.  “We do not want talking—­but doing!”

And for once he had experienced a curious sensation which cowardly men call “fear,” but for which Piero had neither name nor tolerance, when all the people who had been worrying him led him in triumph to the altar and forced him down on his stubborn knees to take a solemn oath of allegiance, his great bronzed hand, all unaccustomed to restraint, resting meanwhile in the slippery silken clasp of the ducal secretary.

Here also had the gastaldo received, from those same patrician hands, the unfurled banner of the Nicolotti, with the sacramental words: 

“We consign to you the standard of San Nicolo, in the name of the Most Serene Prince and as proof that you are the chief gastaldo and head of the people of San Nicolo and San Raffaele.”

And after that had come freedom of breath, with the Te Deum, without which no ceremonial was ever complete in Venice, chanted by all those full-throated gondoliers—­a jubilant chorus of men’s voices, ringing the more heartily through the church for those unwonted hours of repression.