“Have you anything more to say?” asked the secretary, again speaking to Zorzi.

“I have said all, save to thank your Highness and your lordships with all my heart,” answered the Dalmatian.

“Withdraw, and await the decision of the Supreme Council.”

Zorzi cast one more glance at the great half circle of venerable men, at their velvet robes, at the carved wainscot, at the painted vault above, and after making a low obeisance he found his way to the door, outside which the guards were waiting.  They took him back to a cell like the one where he had already sat so long, but which was reached by another passage, for everything in the palace was so disposed as to prevent the possibility of one prisoner meeting another on his way to the tribunal or coming from it; and for this reason the Bridge of Sighs, which was then not yet built, was afterwards made to contain two separate passages.

It seemed a long time before the tread of guards ceased again and the door was opened, and Zorzi rose as quickly as he could when he saw that it was the secretary of the Ten who entered, carrying in his hand a document which had a seal attached to it.

“Your prayer is granted,” said the man with the sharp grey eyes.  “By this patent the Supreme Council permits you to set up a glass-maker’s furnace of your own in Murano, and confers upon you all the privileges of a born glass-blower, and promises you especial protection if any one shall attempt to interfere with your rights.”

Zorzi took the precious parchment eagerly, and he felt the hot blood rushing to his face as he tried to thank the secretary.  But in a moment the busy personage was gone, after speaking a word to the guards, and Zorzi heard the rustling of his silk gown in the corridor.

“You are free, sir,” said one of the guards very civilly, and holding the door open.

Zorzi went out in a dream, finding his way he knew not how, as he received a word of direction here and there from soldiers who guarded the staircases.  When he was aware of outer things he was standing under the portico that surrounds the courtyard of the ducal palace.  The broad parchment was unrolled in his hands and his eyes were puzzling over the Latin words and the unfamiliar abbreviations; on one side of him stood old Beroviero, reading over his shoulder with absorbed interest, and on the other was Zuan Venier, glancing at the document with the careless certainty of one who knows what to expect.  Two steps away Pasquale stood, in his best clothes and his clean shirt, for he had been one of the witnesses, and he was firmly planted on his bowed legs, his long arms hanging down by his sides; his little red eyes were fixed on Zorzi’s face, his ugly jaw was set like a mastiff’s, and his extraordinary face seemed cut in two by a monstrous smile of delight.

“It seems to be in order,” said Venier, politely smothering with his gloved hand the beginning of a yawn.