the night; the single woman’s voice far overhead that broke the silence of some narrow way, singing its song for sheer gladness of an idle heart; it was all as it used to be, and Pasquale had a dim consciousness that he loved it better than his dreary little den in Murano, and better than his Sunday walk as far as San Donato, when all the handsome women and pretty girls of the smaller people were laughing away the cool hours and showing off their little fineries.  It was but a vague suggestion of a sentiment with him, and no more.  He knew that he should starve if he came back to Venice, and what was the pleasant smell of the cabbage stalks and water-melons that it should compare with the security of daily bread and lodging, with some money to spare, and two suits of clothes every year, which his master gave him in return for keeping a single door shut?

He pushed out upon the Grand Canal, where as yet there were few boats and no gondolas at all, and soon he turned the corner of the Salute and rowed out slowly upon the Giudecca, where the merchant vessels lay at anchor, large and small, galliots and feluccas and many a broad ‘trabacolo’ from the Istrian coast, with huge spreading bows, and hawse ports painted scarlet like great red eyes.  The old sailor’s heart was gladdened by the sight of them, and as he rested on his single oar, he gently cursed the land, and all landlocked places, and rivers and fresh water, and all lakes and inland canals, and wished himself once more on the high seas with a stout vessel, a lazy captain, a dozen hard-fisted shipmates and a quarter of a century less to his account of years.

He had been dreaming a little, and now he bent to the oar again and sent the skiff quietly along by the pier, looking out for any idle seamen who might be led into conversation.  Before long he spied a couple, sitting on the edge of the stones near some steps and fishing with long canes.  He passed them, of course, without looking at them, lest they should suspect that he had come their way purposely, and he made the skiff fast by the stair, after which he sat down on a thwart and stared vacantly at things in general, being careful not to bestow a glance on the two men.  Presently one of them caught a small fish, and Pasquale judged that the moment for scraping an acquaintance had begun.  He turned his head and watched how the man unhooked the fish and dropped it flapping into a basket made of half-dried rushes.

“There are no whales in the canal,” he observed.  “There are not even tunny fish.  But what there is, it seems that you know how to catch.”

“I do what I can, according to my little skill,” answered the man.  “It passes the time, and then it is always something to eat with the bread.”

“Yes,” Pasquale answered.  “A roasted fish on bread with a little oil is very savoury.  As for passing the time, I suppose that you are looking for a ship.”

“Of course,” the man replied.  “If we had a ship we should not be here fishing!  It is a bad time of the year, you must know, for most of the Venetian vessels are at sea, and we do not care to ship with any Neapolitan captain who chances to have starved some of his crew to death!”