There are men whom no one respects very highly, who are not sincerely trusted, whose honour is not spotless and whose ways are far from straight, but who nevertheless hold a certain ascendancy over others, by mere show and assurance.  When Contarini entered a place where many were gathered together, there was almost always a little hush in the talk, followed by a murmur that was pleasant in his ear.  No one paused to look at Zuan Venier when he came into a room, though there was not one of his friends who would not have gone to him in danger or difficulty, without so much as thinking of Contarini as a possible helper in trouble.  But it was almost impossible not to feel a sort of artistic surprise at Jacopo’s extraordinary beauty of face and figure, if not at the splendid garments in which he delighted to array himself.

It was with a slight condescension that he greeted the group of players, some of whom at once made a place for him at the table.  They had been ready enough to stand by Venier against him in Zorzi’s defence, but unless Venier led the way, there was not one of them who would think of opposing him, or taking him to task for what was very like a betrayal.  Venier returned his greeting with some coldness, which Contarini hardly noticed, as his reception by the others had been sufficiently flattering.  Then they began to play.

Jacopo won from the first.  Foscari bent his heavy eyebrows and tugged at his beard angrily, as he lost one throw after another; the cold sweat stood on Mocenigo’s forehead in beads, as he risked more and more, and Loredan’s hand trembled when it was his turn to take up the dice box against Contarini; for they played a game in which each threw against all the rest in succession.

“You cannot say that the dice are loaded,” laughed Contarini at last, “for they are your own!”

“The delicacy of the thought is only exceeded by the good taste that expresses it,” observed Venier.

“You are sarcastic, my friend,” answered Jacopo, shaking the dice.  “It is your turn with me.”

Jacopo threw first.  Venier followed him and lost.

“That is my last throw,” he said, as he pushed the remains of his small heap of gold across to Contarini.  “I have no more money to-day, nor shall I have to-morrow.”

“Hossein has plenty,” suggested Foscari, who hoped that Contarini’s luck would desert him before long.

“At this rate you will need all he has,” returned Venier with a careless laugh.

Before long more than one of the players was obliged to call in the ever-complacent Persian merchant, and the heap of gold grew in front of Jacopo, till he could hardly keep it together.

“It is true that you have been losing for years,” said Mocenigo, trying to laugh, “but we did not think you would win back all your losses in a day.”

“You shall have your revenge to-night,” answered Contarini, rising.  “I am expected at a friend’s house at this hour.”