It was a great day for the friars of the Servi, who were rivals of the Frari both in learning and splendor, and the entire Servite Brotherhood, black-robed and white-cowled, was just coming in sight over the little marble bridge, preceded by youthful choristers, chanting as they came and bearing with them that famous banner which had been sent them as a gift from their oldest chapter of San Annunziata in Florence, and which was the early work of Raphael.

A small urchin, leaning far over the edge of the quay and craning his neck upward for a better view, reported some special attraction in this approaching group which elicited yells of vociferous greeting from his colleagues, with such forceful emphasis of his own curling, expressive toes, that he lost his balance and rolled over into the water; from which he was promptly rescued by a human ladder, dexterously let down to him in sections, without a moment’s hesitation, by his allies, who, like all Venetian boys of the populace, were amphibious animals, full of pranks.

But now there was no more time for fooling on the quay, for at the great end-window of the library of the convent of the Frari it could be seen that a procession of this body was forming and would presently enter the church, and the fun would begin for those who understood Latin.

A round-faced friar was giving obliging information.  The contest would be between the Frari and the Servi; there was a new brother who had just entered their order,—­and very learned, it was said,—­but the name was not known.  He would appear to respond to the propositions of the Frari.

“Yes, the theses would be in Latin—­and harder, it was said, had never been seen.  There were the theses in one of those black frames, at the side of the great door.”

“But Latin is no good, except in missals, for women and priests to read.”

The gondolier who owned the voice was undiscoverable among the crowd, and the remark passed with some humorous retaliation.

Hints of the day’s entertainment sifted about, with much more,—­each suggestion, true or otherwise, waking its little ripple of interest,—­as some nearest the curtain lifted it up, went in, and returned, bringing reports.

“The church is filled with great ones, and Mass is going on,” a small scout reported; “and that was Don Ambrogio Morelli that just went in with a lady—­our old Abbe from the school at San Marcuolo—­Beppo goes there now!  And don’t some of us remember Pierino—­always studying and good for nothing, and not knowing enough to wade out of a rio?  The Madonna will have hard work to look after him!”

“Don Ambrogio just wants to cram us boys,” Beppo confessed, in a confidential tone; “but it’s no use knowing too much, even for a priest.  For once, at San Marcuolo—­true as true, faith of the Madonna!—­one of those priests told the people one day in his sermon that there were no ghosts!”