It was this spell of rest that descended for a while on Kitty as they glided downward to the Piazzetta.  The terror of the day relaxed.  Her telegram would be in time; or, if not, she would throw herself into William’s arms, and he must forgive her!—­because she was so foolish and weak, so tired and sad.  She slipped her hand into Margaret’s; they talked in low voices of the child, and Kitty was all appealing melancholy and charm.

At the Piazzetta there was already a crowd of gondolas, and at their head the barca, which carried the musicians.

“You are late, Kitty!” cried Madame d’Estrees, waving to them.  “Shall we draw out and come to you?—­or will you just join on where you are?”

For the Vercelli gondola was already wedged into a serried line of boats in the wake of the barca.

“Never mind us,” said Kitty.  “We’ll tack on somehow.”

And inwardly she was delighted to be thus separated from her mother and the chattering crowd by which Madame d’Estrees seemed to be surrounded.  Kitty and Margaret bade their men fall in, and they presently found themselves on the Salute side of the floating audience, their prow pointing to the canal.

The barca began to move, and the mass of gondolas followed.  Round them, and behind them, other boats were passing and repassing, each with its slim black body, its swanlike motion, its poised oarsman, and its twinkling light.  The lagoon towards the Guidecca was alive with these lights; and a magnificent white steamer adorned with flags and lanterns—­the yacht, indeed, of a German prince—­shone in the mid-channel.

On they floated.  Here were the hotels, with other illuminated boats in front of their steps, whence spoiled voices shouted, “Santa Lucia,” till even Venice and the Grand Canal became a vulgarity and a weariness.  These were the “serenate publiche,” common and commercial affairs, which the private serenata left behind in contempt, steering past their flaring lights for the dark waters of romance which lay beyond.

Suddenly Kitty’s sadness gave way; her starved senses clamored; she woke to poetry and pleasure.  All round her, stretching almost across the canal, the noiseless flock of gondolas—­dark, leaning figures impelling them from behind, and in front the high prows and glow-worm lights; in the boats, a multitude of dim, shrouded figures, with not a face visible; and in their midst the barca, temple of light and music, built up of flowers, and fluttering scarves, and many-colored lanterns, a sparkling fantasy of color, rose and gold and green, shining on the bosom of the night.  To either side, the long, dark lines of thrice-historic palaces; scarcely a poor light here and there at their water-gates; and now and then the lamps of the Traghetti....  Otherwise, darkness, soundless motion, and, overhead, dim stars.

“Margaret!  Look!”

Kitty caught her companion’s arm in a mad delight.