He had come to San Maurizio to take a gondola from the traghetto, partly that he might be free to wander without comment wherever his search should lead, partly because he was always ready for a chat with the people; their experiences interested him, and he himself belonged by his artist life, as by his sympathies, to all classes.  Perhaps, too, he had been moved with a vague hope that he might find the face he was seeking, for he was used to fortunate happenings.  But there were no waiting Madonnas under the pergola, and the air of the early spring morning blew chill from the Lido, almost with an intimation of failure to his sensitive mood.  He pushed aside an old gransiere, without the gift of small coin that usually flowed so easily from his hand, for service rendered or unrendered, as he impatiently questioned the gondoliers.

“One who knows Murano well!” he called.

There was an instant response from an old man almost past traghetto service, but his age and probable garrulity commended him.

“I will take thee and thy gondola, since thou knowest Murano,” said the artist kindly; “but I must go swiftly, and I would not tax thee.  Thou shalt have thy fare, but I will pay for another gondolier also from the traghetto; he must be young and lusty.  Choose thou him—­and hasten.”

There was a babel of voices and a self-gratulatory proffer of lithe forms, while the old gondolier turned undecidedly from one to another, and the tottering gransiere ostentatiously protected the velvet mantle of the artist as he sprang into the boat.  With an impatient gesture the Veronese indicated his choice, and they were soon on their way.

“Come hither, vecchio mio, and rest thine old bones; let the young one work for us both,” the padrone commanded, as he flung himself down among the cushions.  “Do they treat thee well at thy traghetto?”

“Eccellenza, yes; but I am scarce older than the others; it is the young ones who make us trouble; they keep not the Mariegole, and it is only the old one may depend upon.”

“Davvero, the world is changed then!  It used to be good to be young.”

“Eccellenza, yes; when I myself was not old, and his excellency also had no beard.”

“If age and wisdom might be traded for the time of youthful pranks,” said the Veronese with twinkling eyes, “I doubt if there were wisdom enough left in Venice to cavil at the barter!  Yet thou and I, having wisdom thrust upon us by these same beards, if trouble come to thee, or too soon they put thee at the gransiere service, we will remember this day passed together.”

“Eccellenza, thanks; the gransiere has not much beside his beard to keep him warm, and the time draws near,” the old man answered with pleasant Venetian insouciance.

“Tell me,” said the Veronese, turning to the younger man, “why do you young fellows make Venice ring with your scandals?  You are cutting off your own ‘liberties.’”