“You do not know my father!” he answered.  “When he is displeased he threatens to let me starve.  He will cut me off some day, and I shall have to turn soldier for a living.  Would that not be ruin?  You know his last scheme—­he wishes me to marry the daughter of a rich glass-maker.”

“I know.”  Arisa laughed contemptuously, “Great joy may your bride have of you!  Is she really rich?”

“Yes.  But you know that I will not marry her.”

“Why not?” asked Arisa quite simply.

Contarini started and looked up at her face in the dim light.  She was bending down to him with a very loving look.

“Why should you not marry?” she asked again.  “Why do you start and look at me so strangely?  Do you think I should care?  Or that I am afraid of another woman for you?”

“Yes.  I should have thought that you would be jealous.”  He still gazed at her in astonishment.

“Jealous!” she cried, and as she laughed she shook her beautiful head, and the gold of her hair glittered in the flickering candle-light.  “Jealous?  I?  Look at me!  Is she younger than I?  I was eighteen years old the other day.  If she is younger than I, she is a child—­shall I be jealous of children?  Is she taller, straighter, handsomer than I am?  Show her to me, and I will laugh in her face!  Can she sing to you, as I sing, in the summer nights, the songs you like and those I learned by the Kura in the shadow of Kasbek?  Is her hair brighter than mine, is her hand softer, is her step lighter?  Jealous?  Not I!  Will your rich wife be your slave?  Will she wake for you, sing for you, dance for you, rise up and lie down at your bidding, work for you, live for you, die for you, as I will?  Will she love you as I can love, caress you to sleep, or wake you with kisses at your dear will?”

“No—­ah no!  There is no woman in the world but you.”

“Then I am not jealous of the rest, least of all, of your young bride.  I will wager with myself against all her gold for your life, and I shall win—­I have won already!  Am I not trying to persuade you that you should marry?”

“I have not even seen her.  Her father sent me a message to-night, bidding me go to church on Sunday and stand beside a certain pillar.”

“To see and be seen,” laughed Arisa.  “It is not a fair exchange!  She will look at the handsomest man in the world—­hush!  That is the truth.  And you will see a little, pale, red-haired girl with silly blue eyes, staring at you, her wide mouth open and her clumsy hands hanging down.  She will look like the wooden dolls they dress in the latest Venetian fashion to send to Paris every year, that the French courtiers may know what to wear!  And her father will hurry her along, for fear that you should look too long at her and refuse to marry such a thing, even for Marco Polo’s millions!”

Contarini laughed carelessly at the description.

“Give me some wine,” he said.  “We will drink her health.”