2. CHAPTER II.
Giovanni Gradenigo was scarcely more conscious than the
maiden whom he left. He needed all the guidance of his friend.
“Whither?” asked Nicolo Malapiero.
“What matter! where thou wilt!” was the reply.
“For the city, then;” and his friend conducted him to a
gondola which was appointed to await them. In the profoundest
silence they glided toward the city. The gondola
stopped before the dwelling of Nicolo, and he, taking the arm
of the sullen and absent Giovanni within his own, ascended the
marble steps, and was about to enter, when a shrill voice challenged
their attention by naming Giovanni.
“How now, signor,” said the stranger. “Is it thou? Wherefore
hast thou left Olivolo? Why didst thou not wait the
bridal?”
The speaker was a strange, dark-looking woman, in coarse
woollen garments. She hobbled as she walked, assisted by a
heavy staff, and seemed to suffer equally from lameness and
from age. Her thin depressed lips, that ever sunk as she
spoke into the cavity of her mouth, which, in the process of
time, had been denuded of nearly all its teeth; her yellow
wrinkled visage, and thin gray hairs, that escaped from the
close black cap which covered her head, declared the presence
of very great age. But her eye shone still with something even
more lively and oppressive than a youthful fire. It had a sort
of spiritual intensity. Nothing, indeed, could have been more
brilliant, or, seemingly, more unnatural. But hers was a nature
of which we may not judge by common laws. She was no common
woman, and her whole life was characterized by mystery.
She was known in Venice as the “Spanish Gipsy;” was supposed
to be secretly a Jewess, and had only escaped from being
punished as a sorceress by her profound and most exemplary
public devotions. But she was known, nevertheless, as an enchantress,
a magician, a prophetess; and her palmistry, her
magic, her symbols, signs and talismans, were all held in great
repute by the superstitious and the youthful of the ocean city.
Giovanni Gradenigo himself, obeying the popular custom, had
consulted her; and now, as he heard her voice, he raised his
eyes, and started forward with the impulse of one who suddenly
darts from under the griding knife of the assassin. Before
Nicolo could interfere, he had leaped down the steps, and darted
to the quay from which the old woman was about to step into a
gondola. She awaited his coming with a smile of peculiar
meaning, as she repeated her inquiry: —
“Why are not you at Olivolo?”
He answered the question by another, grasping her wrist violently
as he spoke.
“Did you not promise that she should wed with me — that
she should be mine — mine only?”
“Well,” she answered calmly, without struggling or seeking
to extricate her arm from the strong hold which he had upon it.
“Well! and even now the rites are in progress which bind
her to Ulric Barberigo!”
“She will never wed Ulric Barberigo,” was the quiet answer.
“Why left you Olivolo?” she continued.
“Could I remain and look upon these hated nuptials? — could
I be patient and see her driven like a sheep to the sacrifice? I
fled from the spectacle, as if the knife of the butcher were
already in my own heart.”
“You were wrong; but the fates have spoken, and their decrees
are unchangeable. I tell you I have seen your bridal
with Francesca Ziani. No Ulric weds that maiden. She is reserved
for you alone. You alone will interchange with her the
final vows before the man of God. But hasten, that this may find
early consummation. I have seen other things! Hasten — but
hasten not alone, nor without your armor! A sudden and terrible
danger hangs over San Pietro di Castella, and all within its
walks. Gather your friends, gather your retainers. Put on the
weapons of war and fly thither with all your speed. I see a terrible
vision, even now, of blood and struggle! I behold terrors
that frighten even me! Your friend is a man of arms. Let
your war-galleys be put forth, and bid them steer for the Lagune
of Caorlo. There will you win Francesca, and thenceforth
shall you wear her — you only — so long as it may be allowed
you to wear any human joy!”
Her voice, look, manner, sudden energy, and the wild fire of
her eyes, awakened Giovanni to his fullest consciousness. His
friend drew nigh — they would have conferred together, but the
woman interrupted them.
“You would deliberate,” said she, “but you have no time!
What is to be done must be done quickly. It seems wild to
you, and strange, and idle, what I tell you, but it is nevertheless
true; and if you heed me not now bitter will be your repentance
hereafter. You, Giovanni, will depart at least. Heed
not your friend — he is too cold to be successful. He will always
be safe, and do well, but he will do nothing further. Away! if
you can but gather a dozen friends and man a single galley, you
will be in season. But the time is short. I hear a fearful cry
— the cry of women — and the feeble shriek of Francesca Ziani
is among the voices of those who wail with a new terror! I see
their struggling forms, and floating garments, and dishevelled
hair! Fly, young men, lest the names of those whom Venice
has written in her Book of Gold shall henceforth be written in a
Book of Blood.”
The reputation of the sybil was too great in Venice to allow
her wild predictions to be laughed at. Besides, our young Venetians
— Nicolo no less than Giovanni — in spite of what the
woman had spoken touching his lack of enthusiasm — were
both aroused and eagerly excited by her speech. Her person
dilated as she spoke; her voice seemed to come up from a fearful
depth, and went thrillingly deep into the souls of the hearers.
They were carried from their feet by her predictions.
They prepared to obey her counsels. Soon had they gathered
their friends together, enough to man three of the fastest galleys
of the city. Their prows were turned at once toward the Lagune
of Caorlo, whither the woman had directed them. She, meanwhile,
had disappeared, but the course of her gondola lay for
Olivolo.
