He laughed cheerfully, nodded to Zorzi and went out at once, almost before the latter had time to rise from his seat and get his crutch under his arm.

When he was alone, Zorzi looked at the coin and laid it on the table.  He was much puzzled by Giovanni’s conduct, but at the same time his artist’s vanity was flattered by what had happened.  Giovanni’s admiration of the glass was genuine; there could be no doubt of that, and he was a good judge.  As for the work, Zorzi knew quite well that there was not a glass-blower in Murano who could approach him either in taste or skill.  Old Beroviero had told him so within the last few months, and he felt that it was true.

He would have been neither a natural man nor a born artist if he had refused to sell the beaker, out of an exaggerated scruple.  But the transaction had shown him that his only chance of success for the future lay in frankly telling old Beroviero what he had done in his absence, while reserving his secret for himself.  The master was proud of him as his pupil, and sincerely attached to him as a man, and would certainly not try to force him into explaining how the glass was made.  Besides, the glass itself was there, easily distinguished from any other, and Zorzi could neither hide it nor throw it away.

Giovanni went out upon the footway, and as he passed, Pasquale thought he had never seen him so cheerful.  The sour look had gone out of his face, and he was actually smiling to himself.  With such a man it would hardly have been possible to attribute his pleased expression to the satisfaction he felt in having bought Zorzi’s beaker.  He had never before, in his whole life, parted with a piece of gold without a little pang of regret; but he had felt the most keen and genuine pleasure just now, when Zorzi had at last accepted the coin.

Pasquale watched him cross the wooden bridge and go into his father’s house opposite.  Then the old porter shut the door and went back to the laboratory, walking slowly with his ugly head bent a little, as if in deep thought.  Zorzi had already resumed his occupation and had a lump of hot glass swinging on his blow-pipe, his crutch being under his right arm.

“Half a rainbow to windward,” observed the old sailor.  “There will be a squall before long.”

“What do you mean?” asked Zorzi.

“If you had seen the Signor Giovanni smile, as he went out, you would know what I mean,” answered Pasquale.  “In our seas, when we see the stump of a rainbow low down in the clouds, we say it is the eye of the wind, looking out for us, and I can tell you that the wind is never long in coming!”

“Did you say anything to make him smile?” asked Zorzi, going on with his work.

“I am not a mountebank,” growled the porter.  “I am not a strolling player at the door of his booth at a fair, cracking jokes with those who pass!  But perhaps it was you who said something amusing to him, just before he left?  Who knows?  I always took you for a grave young man.  It seems that I was mistaken.  You make jokes.  You cause a serious person like the Signor Giovanni to die of laughing.”