In spite of the time of year, the Councillors were all splendidly robed in the red velvet mantles, edged with ermine, and the velvet caps which made up the state dress of all patricians alike, and the Doge wore his peculiar cap and coronet of office.  Zorzi had never seen such an assembly of imposing and venerable men, some with long grey beards, some close shaven, all grave, all thoughtful, all watching him with quietly scrutinising eyes.  He stood leaning a little on his stick, and he breathed more freely since the dreaded moment was come at last.

Some one bade the secretary read the accusation, and Zorzi listened with wonder and disgust to Giovanni’s long epistle, mentally noting the points which he might answer, and realising that if the law was to be interpreted literally, he had undoubtedly rendered himself liable to some penalty.

“What have you to say?” inquired the secretary, looking up from the paper with a pair of small and piercing grey eyes.  “The Supreme Council will hear your defence.”

“I can tell the truth,” said Zorzi simply, and when he had spoken the words he was surprised that his voice had not trembled.

“That is all the Supreme Council wishes to hear,” answered the secretary.  “Speak on.”

“It is true that I am a Dalmatian,” Zorzi said, “and by the laws of Venice, I should not have learned the art of glass-blowing.  I came to Murano more than five years ago, being very poor, and Messer Angelo Beroviero took me in, and let me take care of his private furnace, at which he makes many experiments.  In time, he trusted me, and when he wished something made, to try the nature of the glass, he let me make it, but not to sell such things.  At first they were badly made, but I loved the art, and in short time I grew to be skilful at it.  So I learnt.  Sirs—­I crave pardon, your Highness, and you lords of the Supreme Council, that is all I have to tell.  I love the glass, and I can make light things of it in good design, because I love it, as the painter loves his colours and the sculptor his marble.  Give me glass, and I will make coloured air of it, and gossamer and silk and lace.  It is all I know, it is my art, I live in it, I feel in it, I dream in it.  To my thoughts, and eyes and hands, it is what the love of a fair woman is to the heart.  While I can work and shape the things I see when I close my eyes, the sun does, not move, the day has no time, winter no clouds, and summer no heat.  When I am hindered I am in exile and in prison, and alone.”

The Doge nodded his head in kindly approbation.

“The young man is a true artist,” he said.

“All this,” said one of the Chiefs of the Ten, “would be well if you were a Venetian.  But you are not, and the accusation says that you have sold your works to the injury of born Venetians.  What have you to say?”