University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

Another morning called the Venetians to their
affairs. Agents of the police had been active in
preparing the public mind, and as the sun rose
above the narrow sea, the squares began to fill.
There were present the curious citizen in his cloak

and cap, bare-legged laborers in wondering awe,
the circumspect Hebrew in his gaberdine and
beard, masked gentlemen, and many an attentive
stranger from among the thousands who still frequented
that declining mart. It was rumored that
an act of retributive justice was about to take place,
for the peace of the town and the protection of the
citizen. It short, curiosity, idleness, and revenge,
with all the usual train of human feelings, had
drawn together a multitude eager to witness the
agonies of a fellow-creature.

The Dalmatians were drawn up, near the sea, in
a manner to inclose the two granite columns of the
Piazzetta. Their grave and disciplined faces fronted
inwards, towards the African pillars, those well-known
land-marks of death. A few grim warriors,
of higher rank, paced the flags before the troops,
while a dense crowd filled the exterior space. By
special favor, more than a hundred fishermen were
grouped within the armed men, witnesses that their
class had revenge. Between the lofty pedestals of
St. Theodore and the winged lion lay the block and
ax, the basket and the saw-dust; the usual accompaniments
of justice in that day. By their side,
stood the executioner.

At length a movement in the living mass drew
every eye towards the gate of the palace. A murmur
arose, the multitude waved, and a small body
of the Sbirri came into view. Their steps were
swift, like the march of destiny. The Dalmatians
opened to receive these ministers of fate into their
bosom, and closing their ranks again appeared to
preclude the world, with its hopes, from the condemned.
On reaching the block between the columns,
the Sbirri fell off in files, waiting at a little
distance, while Jacopo was left before the engines
of death, attended by his ghostly counsellor, the

Carmelite. The action left them open to the gaze
of the throng.

Father Anselmo was in the usual attire of a bare-footed
friar of his order. The cowl of the holy man
was thrown back, exposing his mortified lineaments,
and self-examining eye, to those around. The expression
of his countenance was that of bewildered
uncertainty, relieved by frequent, but fitful, glimmerings
of hope. Though his lips moved constantly
in prayer, his looks wandered, by an irrepressible
impulse, from one window of the doge's palace to
another. He took his station near the condemned,
however, and thrice crossed himself, fervently.

Jacopo had tranquilly placed his person before
the block. His head was bare, his cheek colorless,
his throat and neck uncovered to the shoulders, his
body, in its linen, and the rest of his form, was clad
in the ordinary dress of a gondolier. He kneeled,
with his face bowed to the block, repeated a prayer,
and rising he faced the multitude, with dignity and
composure. As his eye moved slowly over the
array of human countenances by which he was environed,
a hectic glowed on his features, for not
one of them all betrayed sympathy in his sufferings.
His breast heaved, and those nearest to his person
thought the self-command of the miserable man was
about to fail him. The result disappointed expectation.
There was a shudder, and the limbs settled
into repose.

“Thou hast looked in vain, among the multitude,
for a friendly eye?” said the Carmelite, whose attention
had been drawn to the convulsive movement.

“None here have pity for an assassin.”

“Remember thy Redeemer, son. He suffered
ignominy and death, for a race that denied his God-head,
and derided his sorrows.”

Jacopo crossed himself, and bowed his head, in
reverence.

“Hast thou more prayers to repeat, father?” demanded
the chief of the Sbirri; he who was particularly
charged with the duty of the hour.
“Though the illustrious councils are so sure in justice,
they are merciful to the souls of sinners.”

“Are thy orders peremptory?” asked the monk,
unconsciously fixing his eye, again, on the windows
of the palace. “Is it certain that the prisoner is to
die?”

The officer smiled at the simplicity of the question,
but with the apathy of one too much familiarized
with human suffering, to admit of compassion.

“Do any doubt it?” he rejoined. “It is the lot
of man, reverend monk; and more especially is it
the lot of those on whom the judgment of St. Mark
has alighted. It were better that your penitent looked
to his soul.”

“Surely thou hast thy private and express commands!
They have named a minute, when this
bloody work is to be performed?”

“Holy Carmelite, I have. The time will not be
weary, and you will do well to make the most of it,
unless you have faith, already, in the prisoner's condition.”

As he spoke, the officer threw a glance at the
dial of the square, and walked coolly away. The
action left the priest and the prisoner again alone,
between the columns. It was evident that the former
could not yet believe in the reality of the execution.

“Hast thou no hope, Jacopo?” he asked.

“Carmelite, in my God.”

“They cannot commit this wrong! I shrived
Antonio—I witnessed his fate, and the prince knows
it!”

“What is a prince and his justice, where the selfishness

of a few rules! Father, thou art new in the
senate's service.”

“I shall not presume to say that God will blast
those who do this deed, for we cannot trace the
mysteries of his wisdom. This life, and all this
world can offer, are but specks in his omniscient
eye, and what to us seems evil, may be pregnant
with good.—Hast thou faith in thy Redeemer, Jacopo?”

The prisoner laid his hand upon his heart, and
smiled, with the calm assurance that none but those
who are thus sustained can feel.

“We will again pray, my son.”

The Carmelite and Jacopo kneeled, side by side,
the latter bowing his head to the block, while the
monk uttered a final appeal to the mercy of the
Deity. The former arose, but the latter continued
in the suppliant attitude. The monk was so full of
holy thoughts, that, forgetting his former wishes, he
was nearly content the prisoner should pass into the
fruition of that hope which elevated his own mind.
The officer and executioner drew near, the former
touching the arm of Father Anselmo, and pointing
towards the distant dial.

“The moment is near;” he whispered, more
from habit, than in any tenderness to the prisoner.

The Carmelite turned instinctively towards the
palace, forgetting, in the sudden impulse, all but his
sense of earthly justice. There were forms at the
windows, and he fancied a signal, to stay the impending
blow, was about to be given.”

“Hold!” he exclaimed. “For the love of Maria
of most pure memory, be not too hasty!”

The exclamation was repeated by a shrill female
voice, and then Gelsomina, eluding every effort to
arrest her, rushed through the Dalmatians, and
reached the group between the granite columns.

Wonder and curiosity agitated the multitude, and a
deep murmur ran through the square.

“'Tis a maniac!” cried one.

“'Tis a victim of his arts!” said another, for
when men have a reputation for any particular vice,
the world seldom fails to attribute all the rest.

Gelsomina seized the bonds of Jacopo, and endeavored,
frantically, to release his arms.

“I had hoped thou would'st have been spared
this sight, poor Gessina!” said the condemned.

“Be not alarmed!” she answered, gasping for
breath. “They do it in mockery—'tis one of their
wiles to mislead—but they cannot—no, they dare
not harm a hair of thy head, Carlo!”

“Dearest Gelsomina!”

“Nay, do not hold me.—I will speak to the citizens,
and tell them all. They are angry now, but
when they know the truth they will love thee, Carlo,
as I do.”

“Bless thee—bless thee!—I would thou hadst
not come!”

“Fear not for me! I am little used to such a
crowd, but thou wilt see that I shall dare to speak
them fair, and to make known the truth boldly. I
want but breath.”

“Dearest! Thou hast a mother—a father to
share thy tenderness. Duty to them will make thee
happy!”

“Now, I can speak, and thou shalt see how I
will vindicate thy name.”

She arose from the arms of her lover, who, notwithstanding
his bonds, released his hold of her
slight form with a reluctance greater than that with
which he parted with life. The struggle in the
mind of Jacopo seemed over. He bowed his head,
passively, to the block, before which he was kneeling,
and it is probable, by the manner in which his
hands were clasped, that he prayed for her who

left him. Not so Gelsomina. Parting her hair, over
her spotless forehead, with both hands, she advanced
towards the fishermen, who were familiar to her eye,
by their red caps and bare limbs. Her smile was
like that which the imagination would bestow on the
blessed, in their intercourse of love.

“Venetians!” she said, “I cannot blame you; ye
are here to witness the death of one whom ye believe
unfit to live—”

“The murderer of old Antonio!” muttered several
of the group.

“Ay, even the murderer of that aged and excellent
man. But, when you hear the truth, when you
come to know that he, whom you have believed an
assassin, was a pious child, a faithful servant of the
republic, a gentle gondolier, and a true heart, you
will change your bloody purpose, for a wish for
justice.”

A common murmur drowned her voice, which
was so trembling and low, as to need deep stillness
to render the words audible. The Carmelite had
advanced to her side, and he motioned earnestly for
silence.

“Hear her, men of the Lagunes!” he said; “she
utters holy truth.”

“This reverend and pious monk, with Heaven, is
my witness. When you shall know Carlo better,
and have heard his tale, ye will be the first to cry
out for his release. I tell you this, that when the
doge shall appear at yon window and make the signal
of mercy, you need not be angry, and believe
that your class has been wronged. Poor Carlo—”

“The girl raves!” interrupted the moody fishermen.
“Here is no Carlo, but Jacopo Frontoni, a
common bravo.”

Gelsomina smiled, in the security of the innocent,
and, regaining her breath, which nervous agitation
still disturbed, she resumed.

“Carlo, or Jacopo—Jacopo, or Carlo—it matters
little.”

“Ha! There is a sign from the palace!” shouted
the Carmelite, stretching both his arms in that direction,
as if to grasp a boon. The clarions sounded,
and another wave stirred the multitude. Gelsomina
uttered a cry of delight, and turned to throw
herself upon the bosom of the reprieved. The ax
glittered before her eyes, and the head of Jacopo
rolled upon the stones, as if to meet her. A general
movement in the living mass denoted the end.

The Dalmatians wheeled into column, the Sbirri
pushed aside the throng, on their way to their
haunts, the water of the bay was dashed upon the
flags, the clotted saw-dust was gathered, the head
and trunk, block, basket, ax, and executioner, disappeared,
and the crowd circulated around the
fatal spot.

During this horrible and brief moment, neither
Father Anselmo nor Gelsomina moved. All was
over, and still the entire scene appeared to be delusion.

“Take away this maniac!” said an officer of the
police, pointing to Gelsomina as he spoke.

He was obeyed with Venetian readiness, but his
words proved prophetic, before his servitors had
quitted the square. The Carmelite scarce breathed.
He gazed at the moving multitude, at the windows
of the palace, and at the sun which shone so gloriously
in the heavens

“Thou art lost in this crowd!” whispered one at
his elbow. “Reverend Carmelite, you will do well
to follow me.”

The monk was too much subdued to hesitate. His
conductor led him, by many secret ways, to a quay,
where he instantly embarked, in a gondola, for the
main. Before the sun reached the meridian, the
thoughtful and trembling monk was on his journey

towards the states of the Church: and ere long he
became established in the castle of Sant' Agata.

At the usual hour the sun fell behind the mountains
of the Tyrol, and the moon reappeared above
the Lido. The narrow streets of Venice, again,
poured out their thousands upon the squares. The
mild light fell athwart the quaint architecture, and
the giddy tower, throwing a deceptive glory on the
city of islands.

The porticoes became brilliant with lamps, the
gay laughed, the reckless trifled, the masker pursued
his hidden purpose, the cantatrice and the grotesque
acted their parts, and the million existed in that vacant
enjoyment which distinguishes the pleasures of
the thoughtless and the idle. Each lived for himself,
while the state of Venice held its vicious sway, corrupting
alike the ruler and the ruled, by its mockery
of those sacred principles which are alone founded
in truth and natural justice.