at the banquet-table’s head he saw his dead child Elena alive, and at her side a husband.  And when the whole truth had been declared, he not only kissed and embraced the pair who knelt before him, but of his goodness forgave the nurse, who in her turn came trembling to his feet.  Then fell there joy and bliss in overmeasure that night upon both palaces of the Canal Grande.  And with the morrow the Church blessed the spousals which long since had been on both sides vowed and consummated.

VI.—­ON THE LAGOONS

The mornings are spent in study, sometimes among pictures, sometimes in the Marcian Library, or again in those vast convent chambers of the Frari, where the archives of Venice load innumerable shelves.  The afternoons invite us to a further flight upon the water.  Both sandolo and gondola await our choice, and we may sail or row, according as the wind and inclination tempt us.

Yonder lies San Lazzaro, with the neat red buildings of the Armenian convent.  The last oleander blossoms shine rosy pink above its walls against the pure blue sky as we glide into the little harbour.  Boats piled with coal-black grapes block the landing-place, for the Padri are gathering their vintage from the Lido, and their presses run with new wine.  Eustace and I have not come to revive memories of Byron—­that curious patron saint of the Armenian colony—­or to inspect the printing-press, which issues books of little value for our studies.  It is enough to pace the terrace, and linger half an hour beneath the low broad arches of the alleys pleached with vines, through which the domes and towers of Venice rise more beautiful by distance.

Malamocco lies considerably farther, and needs a full hour of stout rowing to reach it.  Alighting there, we cross the narrow strip of land, and find ourselves upon the huge sea-wall—­block piled on block—­of Istrian stone in tiers and ranks, with cunning breathing-places for the waves to wreak their fury on and foam their force away in fretful waste.  The very existence of Venice may be said to depend sometimes on these murazzi, which were finished at an immense cost by the Republic in the days of its decadence.  The enormous monoliths which compose them had to be brought across the Adriatic in sailing vessels.  Of all the Lidi, that of Malamocco is the weakest; and here, if anywhere, the sea might effect an entrance into the lagoon.  Our gondoliers told us of some places where the murazzi were broken in a gale, or sciroccale, not very long ago.  Lying awake in Venice, when the wind blows hard, one hears the sea thundering upon its sandy barrier, and blesses God for the murazzi.  On such a night it happened once to me to dream a dream of Venice overwhelmed by water.  I saw the billows roll across the smooth lagoon like a gigantic Eager.  The Ducal Palace crumbled, and San Marco’s domes went down.  The Campanile rocked and shivered like a reed.