“Ay, madam,” broke in Grey Dick, who could bear no more of it, “death is always near to all of us, and especially so in Venice just now.  Therefore, I pray you tell me—­in case we should live and you should die, you and all about you—­whether you have any commands to give as to what should be done with your gold and articles of value, or any messages to leave for friends in England.”

Then, having uttered this grim jest, Dick took his master by the arm and drew him through the door.

Afterward, for a reason that shall be told, he was sorry that it had ever passed his lips.  Still in the boat Sir Geoffrey applauded him, saying that his lady’s melancholy had grown beyond all bearing, and that she did little but prate to him about his will and what colour of marble he desired for his tomb.

After a journey that seemed long to Hugh, who wished to have this business over, they came to the Place of Arms.  Their route there, however, was not the same which they had followed on the previous night.  Leaving the short way through the low part of the town untraversed, they rowed from one of the canals into the harbour itself, where they were joined by many other boats which waited for them and so on to the quay.  Hugh saw at once that the death ship, Light of the East, was gone, and incautiously said as much to Sir Geoffrey.

“Yes,” he answered, “one of my rowers tells me that they have towed her to an island out at sea, since the stench from her holds was more than could be borne.  But how did you know that she lay at this particular quay, Sir Hugh?”

“I thought you said so,” he answered carelessly, adding, to change the subject:  “Look, our fray will not lack for spectators,” and he pointed to the thousands gathered upon the great tilting-ground.

“No, no, all Venice will be there, for these people love a show, especially if there be death in it.”

“Mayhap they will see more of him than they wish before all is done,” muttered Grey Dick, pausing from the task of whetting his axe’s edge with a little stone which he carried in his pouch.  Then he replaced the axe in its hanger, and, drawing Hugh’s sword from its sheath, began to give some final touches to its razor edge, saying:  “Father Sir Andrew Arnold blessed it, which should be enough, but Milan steel is hard and his old battle blade will bite none the worse for an extra sharpening.  Go for his throat, master, go for his throat, the mail is always thinnest there.”

“God above us, what a grim man!” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey, and so thought all in that boat and in those around them.  At least they looked at Dick askance as he whetted and whetted, and then, plucking out one of the pale hairs from his head, drew it along the edge of the steel, which severed it in twain.

“There!  That’ll do,” said Grey Dick cheerfully, as he returned the long sword to its sheath, “and God help this Cattrina, I say, for he comes to his last battle.  That is, unless he runs away,” he added after reflection.