“He works with Angelo Beroviero, does he not?” asked Zuan Venier in a tone of weary indifference.

“Yes,” answered Contarini with a laugh.  “He is in the service of my future father-in-law.”

“To whom may heaven accord a speedy, painless and Christian death!” laughed Foscari in his black beard.

“Not till I am one of his heirs, if you please,” returned Contarini.  “As soon after the wedding day as you like, for besides her rich dowry, the lady is to have a share of his inheritance.”

“Is she very ugly?” asked Loredan.  “Poor Jacopo!  You have the sympathy of the brethren.”

“How does he know?” sneered Mocenigo.  “He has never seen her.  Besides, why should he care, since she is rich?”

“You are mistaken, for I have seen her,” said Contarini, looking down the table.  “She is not at all ill-looking, I assure you.  The old man was so much afraid that I would not agree to the match that he took her to church so that I might look at her.”

“And you did?” asked Mocenigo.  “I should never have had the courage.  She might have been hideous, and in that case I should have preferred not to find it out till I was married.”

“I looked at her with some interest,” said Contarini, smiling in a self-satisfied way.  “I am bound to say, with all modesty, that she also looked at me,” he added, passing his white hand over his thick hair.

“Of course,” put in Foscari gravely.  “Any woman would, I should think.”

“I suppose so,” answered Contarini complacently.  “It is not my fault if they do.”

“Nor your misfortune,” added Fosoari, with as much gravity as before.

Zuan Venier had not joined in the banter, which seemed to him to be of the most atrocious taste.  He had liked Zorzi and had just made up his mind to go to Murano the next day and find him out.

On that evening there was not so much as a mention of what was supposed to bring them together.  Before they had talked a quarter of an hour, some one began to throw dice on the table, playing with his right hand against his left, and in a few moments the real play had begun.

High up in Arisa’s room the Georgian woman and Aristarchi heard all that was said, crouching together upon the floor beside the opening the slave had discovered.  When the voices were no longer heard except at rare intervals, in short exclamations of satisfaction or disappointment, and only the regular rattling and falling of the dice broke the silence, the pair drew back from the praying-stool.

“They will say nothing more to-night,” whispered Arisa.  “They will play for hours.”

“They had not said a word that could put their necks in danger,” answered Aristarchi discontentedly.  “Who is this fellow from the glass-house, of whom they were speaking?”

Arisa led him away to a small divan between the open windows.  She sat down against the cushions at the back, but he stretched his bulk upon the floor, resting his head against her knee.  She softly rubbed his rough hair with the palm of her hand, as she might have caressed a cat, or a tame wild animal.  It gave her a pleasant sensation that had a thrill of danger in it, for she always expected that he would turn and set his teeth into her fingers.