was exceedingly beautiful.  It was easy to see that, though the dark veil hid half her face and its folds concealed most of her figure.  The mysterious, almond-shaped eyes were those of another race, the marble cheek was more perfectly modelled and turned than an Italian’s, the curling golden hair was more glorious than any Venetian’s.  Arisa had come to see her master’s bride, and he knew that she was there looking on.  Why should he care?  It was a bargain, and he was not going to give up Arisa and the house of the Agnus Dei because he meant to marry the rich glass-blower’s daughter.

Marietta imagined no connection between the woman and the man, who thus insolently came to the same place to look at her, pretending not to know one another; and when she looked back at Contarini she felt a miserable little thrill of vanity as she noticed that he was looking fixedly at her, and that his eyes did not wander to the face of that other woman, who was so much more beautiful than herself.  Perhaps, after all, he would really prefer her to that matchless creature close beside her!  Nothing mattered, of course, since Zorzi did not love her, but after all it was flattering to be admired by Jacopo Contarini, who could choose his wife where he pleased, through the whole world.

It all happened in a few seconds.  The two men exchanged a few words, to which she paid no attention, and took leave of each other with great ceremony and much bowing on both sides.  When her father turned at last, Marietta was already walking towards the door, the servant by her left side.  Beroviero had scarcely joined her when she started a little, and laid her hand upon his arm.

“The Greek merchant!” she whispered.

Beroviero looked where she was looking.  By the first pillar, gazing intently at Arisa’s kneeling figure, stood Aristarchi, his hands folded over his broad chest, his shaggy head bent forward, his sturdy legs a little apart.  He, too, had come to see the promised bride, and to be a witness of the bargain whereby he also was to be enriched.

As Marietta came out of the church, she covered her face closely and drew her silk mantle quite round her, bending her head a little.  The servant walked a few paces in front.

“You have seen your future husband, my child,” said Beroviero.

“I suppose that the young noble was Messer Jacopo Contarini,” answered Marietta coldly.

“You are hard to please, if you are not satisfied with my choice for you,” observed her father.

To this Marietta said nothing.  She only bent her head a little lower, looking down as she trod delicately over the hot and dusty ground.

“And you are a most ungrateful daughter,” continued Beroviero, “if you do not appreciate my kindness and liberality of mind in allowing you to see him before you are formally betrothed.”

“Perhaps he is even more pleased by your liberality of mind than I could possibly be,” retorted the young girl with unbending coldness.  “He has probably not seen many Venetian girls of our class face to face and unveiled.  He is to be congratulated on his good fortune!”