“What do you want?”

“You will pardon me, sir, but I am looking for some statue of the Holy Virgin, for I am a Christian; if there were even a small crucifix it would be something, for I have never been in so much need of the protection of St. Francis d’Assisi, whose name I bear, though all unworthy.”

I could scarcely help laughing, not at his Christian piety, since faith and conscience are beyond control, but at the curious turn he gave his remonstrance.  I concluded he took me for a Jew; and to disabuse him of this notion I made haste to give him the “Hours of the Holy Virgin,” whose picture he kissed, and then gave me the book back, telling me in a modest voice that his father—­a, galley officer—­had neglected to have him taught to read.  “I am,” said he, “a devotee of the Holy Rosary,” and he told me a host of miracles, to which I listened with the patience of an angel.  When he had come to an end I asked him if he had had his dinner, and he replied that he was dying of hunger.  I gave him everything I had, which he devoured rather than ate; drinking all my wine, and then becoming maudlin he began to weep, and finally to talk without rhyme or reason.  I asked him how he got into trouble, and he told me the following story: 

“My aim and my only aim has always been the glory of God, and of the holy Republic of Venice, and that its laws may be exactly obeyed.  Always lending an attentive ear to the plots of the wicked, whose end is to deceive, to deprive their prince of his just dues, and to conspire secretly, I have over and again unveiled their secret plans, and have not failed to report to Messer-Grande all I know.  It is true that I am always paid, but the money has never given me so much pleasure as the thought that I have been able to serve the blessed St. Mark.  I have always despised those who think there is something dishonourable in the business of a spy.  The word sounds ill only to the ill-affected; for a spy is a lover of the state, the scourge of the guilty, and faithful subject of his prince.  When I have been put to the test, the feeling of friendship, which might count for something with other men, has never had the slightest influence over me, and still less the sentiment which is called gratitude.  I have often, in order to worm out a secret, sworn to be as silent as the grave, and have never failed to reveal it.  Indeed, I am able to do so with full confidence, as my director who is a good Jesuit has told me that I may lawfully reveal such secrets, not only because my intention was to do so, but because, when the safety of the state is at stake, there is no such thing as a binding oath.  I must confess that in my zeal I have betrayed my own father, and that in me the promptings of our weak nature have been quite mortified.  Three weeks ago I observed that there was a kind of cabal between four or five notables of the town of Isola, where I live.  I knew them to be disaffected to the Government on account of certain contraband