But so great were the complications of the involved Venetian machine—­so many were the mysteries and fears environing the daily life of these patricians—­that each felt the actual to be safer than the untried unknown, and surrendered the hope of change, tightening the cords that upheld the government as their only means of safety.

For there was an under side to all this gold-tissued splendor that was sometimes laid bare to the people, in spite of the deftness with which the Signoria stood tirelessly ready to cover up the flaws; and a recent sad travesty of justice was one of the weird happenings of this time.

Not long since a formal decree of pardon had been solemnly declared and published throughout Venetia, at which the people stood aghast.  For the man to whom this clemency was graciously extended had been condemned and executed between the columns of San Marco and San Teodoro, ten years before—­standing accused of conspiracy against the State.  There had been many murmurings when the name of this old patrician, holding honorable office in service of the Republic, had been erased from the Golden Book; and he had suffered his ignominious death protesting that the charge was false, and that all who had aided in his condemnation should die before the year was out.  His dying words had proved a grim prophecy, which, encouraged by the pressure of the senators, induced the Signoria to order a re-investigation of his case, whereby the manes of this dishonored servant of the State were re-instated in that serene favor now so worthless.

And to-day the people gathered in gloomy silence while the great bell of the campanile tolled the call to the solemn funeral pageant by which the Republic offered reparation over the exhumed body of the victim.  The senators, wrapped in mourning cloaks, surrounded the bust of the man they desired to honor as it was carried in triumph to the church where the tomb was prepared; and the three avvogadori, who had the keeping of the Golden Book, bore it on a great cushion behind the marble effigy, the leaf bound open where the name was re-inscribed.  Here also walked the domestics of the re-habilitated noble of Venice—­the hatchments that had been doomed to oblivion freshly embroidered upon their sleeves above their tokens of crepe.  The Doge and the Signoria all took part in this tragic confession of wrong, doing penance unflinchingly for the sins of their predecessors; for Venice could be munificent in reparation, not shrinking from her own humiliation to appease outraged justice and confirm her power, and there was nothing lacking that might add impressiveness to the pageant.

But the people looked on gloomy and unappeased, filled with a horror which the funeral pomp did little to quiet; they did not follow as the cortege descended the steps of the Piazzetta to embark in the waiting gondolas that had been lavishly provided by the Republic.  Santissima Maria! they wanted to get back to their own quarters on the Giudecca and breathe a little sunshine!  What did one noble matter, less or more?  “But it’s a gloomy barcarolle that a dead man sings!”