“Yes, signore.”  The gondolier hesitated, glancing doubtfully at the artist’s sumptuous attire, which might have indicated a state much greater than he kept; for the Veronese was famed throughout Venice, in quarters where he was better known, for an unfailing splendor of costume which would have made him at all times a model for the pictures he loved to paint.  Recently, for bad conduct, the gondoliers had been gradually forfeiting their licenses, or “liberties,” as they were called in Venice, and the thought crossed the young fellow’s mind that this splendid stranger was possibly one of those government officials who were charged with the supervision of the confraternities of the traghetti.

“It is the first time I have the honor of conducting his Excellency; he is perhaps of the Provveditori al Comun?” These officials collected the government taxes and were viewed with jealous eyes by the gondoliers.

“Nay; I am Paolo Cagliari; I belong to a better craft.  But please thyself, for there is much talk of this matter.”

“Signore, one must live!” the young fellow exclaimed, with a friendly shrug of his shoulders and a gleam of his white teeth; for it was easy to make friends with the genial artist.  “And between the governors and the provveditori one may scarce draw breath!  One’s bread and onions—­” he added, with a dramatic gesture of self-pity.  “It is not much to ask!”

“Altro!  Nonsense!” the Veronese exclaimed, laughing, for the gondolier looked little like one who was suffering from hunger, as he stood swaying in keen enjoyment of the motion which showed his prowess, of the wind as it swept his bronzed cheek, of the talk which permitted him to exploit his grievances.

“There is the High Mass, twice in the month; there is the Low Mass—­every Monday, if you will believe me!  There are the priests, for nothing—­Santa Maria, they are not few!  The first fare in the day?—­always for the Madonna of the traghetto.  This maledetto fare of the Madonna suffices for the Madonna’s oil, I ask you?  Ebbene non!  There are the fines—­and these, it must be confessed, might be fewer, for the saints are tired of keeping us out of mischief.  And little there is for one’s own madonna, if one would make gifts!”

“This, then, for thine own madonna,” said the artist pleasantly, tossing him a considerable coin.  “And may she make thee wiser; for, by thine inventory, which it doth not harm thee to rehearse, thou hast a good memory.”

“Eccellenza, there is more, if you be not weary.  There is the government tax; it takes long to gather—­ask the gastaldo!  There are the soldiers for the navy; how many good men does that leave for the traghetto service?  And a license is not little to buy for a poor barcariol who would be his own man; one pays three hundred lire—­not less.  Does it drop into one’s hand with the first fare?  One must belong to the Guilds—­it is less robbery!”