A low murmur arose among the people in the boats as this spectacle presented itself to their eyes; and many bowed their faces in prayer.  The condemned man caught a ray of consolation from this expression of sympathy; and he looked around him an instant, with something like a return of those feelings of the world which it had been his effort and his desire totally to eradicate since he had taken, leave of Ghita, and learned that his last request—­that of changing his mode of punishment—­had been denied.  That was a fearful moment for one like Don Francesco Caraccioli, who had passed a long life in the midst of the scene that surrounded him—­illustrious by birth, affluent, honored for his services, and accustomed to respect and deference.  Never had the glorious panorama of the bay appeared more lovely than it did at that instant, when he was about to quit it for ever, by a violent and disgraceful death.  From the purple mountains—­the cerulean void above him—­the blue waters over which he seemed already to be suspended—­and the basking shores, rich in their towns, villas, and vines, his eye turned toward the world of ships, each alive with its masses of living men.  A glance of melancholy reproach was cast upon the little flag that was just waving at the mizzen-masthead of the Foudroyant; and then it fell on the carpet of faces beneath, that seemed fairly to change the surface of the smooth sea into an arena of human countenances.  His look was steady, though his soul was in a tumult.  Ghita was recognized by her companion and by her dress.  He moved toward the edge of his narrow scaffolding, endeavored to stretch forth his arms, and blessed her again aloud.  The poor girl dropped on her knees in the bottom of the boat, bowed her head, and in that humble attitude did she remain until all was over; not daring once to look upward again.

“Son,” said the priest, “this is a moment when the earth and its feelings must be forgotten.”

“I know it, father,” answered the old man, his voice trembling with emotion, for his sensations were too powerful, too sublime, even, for the degrading passion of fear—­“but never before did this fair piece of the creation seem so lovely in my eyes as now, when I am about to quit it for the last time.”

“Look beyond this scene, into the long vista of eternity, son; there thou wilt behold that which mocks at all human, all earthly means.  I fear that our time is but short—­hast thou aught yet to say in the flesh?”

“Let it be known, holy priest, that in my dying moment I prayed for Nelson, and for all who have been active in bringing me to this end.  It is easy for the fortunate and the untempted to condemn; but he is wiser, as he is safer, who puts more reliance on the goodness of God than on his own merits.”

A ray of satisfaction gleamed athwart the pale countenance of the priest—­a sincerely pious man, or fear of personal consequences might have kept him aloof from such a scene—­and he closed his eyes while he expressed his gratitude to God in the secret recesses of his own spirit.  Then he turned to the prince and spoke cheeringly.