 | CHAPTER VIII. The bravo |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
From his green islet, bringing o'er the waves
His wife and little one; the husbandman
From the firm land, with many a friar and nun,
And village maiden, her first flight from home,
Crowding the common ferry.
Rogers,
A brighter day than that which succeeded the
night last mentioned, never dawned upon the massive
domes, the gorgeous palaces, and the glittering canals
of Venice. The sun had not been long above
trumpets arose from the square of St. Mark. They
were answered, in full echoes, from the distant arsenal.
A thousand gondolas glided from the canals,
stealing in every direction across the port, the Guidecca,
and the various outer channels of the place,
while the well-known routes, from Fusina and the
neighboring isles, were dotted with endless lines of
boats, urging their way towards the capital.
The citizens began to assemble early, in their
holiday attire, while thousands of contadini landed
at the different bridges, clad in the gay costumes of
the main. Before the day had far advanced, all the
avenues of the great square were again thronged,
and by the time the bells of the venerable cathedral
had finished a peal of high rejoicing, St. Mark's
again teemed with its gay multitude. Few appeared
in masks, but pleasure seemed to lighten every
eye, while the frank and unconcealed countenance
willingly courted the observation and sympathy of
its neighbors. In short, Venice and her people were
seen, in all the gaiety and carelessness of a favorite
Italian festa. The banners of the conquered nations
flapped heavily on the triumphal masts, each church-tower
hung out its image of the winged lion, and
every palace was rich in its hangings of tapestry
and silk, floating from balcony and window.
In the midst of this exhilarating and bright spectacle
was heard the din of a hundred thousand
voices. Above the constant hum, there arose, from
time to time, the blasts of trumpets and the symphonies
of rich music. Here the improvisatore, secretly
employed by a politic and mysterious government,
recounted, with a rapid utterance, and in language
suited to the popular ear, at the foot of the spars
which upheld the conquered banners of Candia,
Crete, and the Morea, the ancient triumphs of the
republic; while, there, a ballad-singer chaunted, to
Marco. Shouts of approbation succeeded each
happy allusion to the national renown, and bravos,
loud and oft-repeated, were the reward of the agents
of the police, whenever they most administered to
the self-delusion and vanity of their audience.
In the mean time, gondolas rich in carvings and
gildings, and containing females renowned for grace
and beauty, began to cluster, in hundreds, around
the port. A general movement had already taken
place among the shipping, and a wide and clear
channel was opened from the quay, at the foot of
the Piazzetta, to the distant bank, which shut out the
waves of the Adriatic. Near this watery path,
boats of all sizes and descriptions, filled with the
curious and observant, were fast collecting.
The crowd thickened as the day drew in, all the
vast plains of the Padovano appearing to have given
up their people to swell the numbers of those that
rejoiced. A few timid and irresolute masquers now
began to appear in the throng, stealing a momentary
pleasure under the favor of that privileged disguise,
from out of the seclusion and monotony of their
cloisters. Next came the rich marine equipages of
the accredited agents of foreign states, and then,
amid the sound of clarions and the cries of the populace,
the Bucentaur rowed out of the channel of
the arsenal, and came sweeping to her station, at
the quay of St. Mark.
These preliminaries, which occupied some hours,
being observed, the javelin-men, and others employed
about the person of the head of the republic, were
seen opening an avenue through the throng. After
which, the rich strains of a hundred instruments,
proclaimed the approach of the doge.
We shall not detain the narrative, to describe the
pomp in which a luxurious and affluent aristocracy,
that in general held itself aloof from familiar intercourse
to the eyes of the multitude, on an occasion of popular
rejoicing. Long lines of senators, dressed in
their robes of office, and attended by crowds of
liveried followers, came from under the galleries of
the palace, and descended by the Giant's Stairway,
into the sombre court. Thence, the whole issued
into the Piazzetta, in order, and proceeded to their
several stations, on the canopied deck of the well-known
bark. Each patrician had his allotted place,
and before the rear of the cortège had yet quitted
the quay, there was a long and imposing row of
grave legislators seated in the established order of
their precedency. The ambassadors, the high dignitaries
of the state, and the aged man, who had
been chosen to bear the empty honors of sovereignty,
still remained on the land, waiting, with the quiet
of trained docility, the moment to embark. At this
moment, a man of an embrowned visage, legs bare
to the knee, and breast open to the breeze, rushed
through the guards, and knelt on the stones of the
quay, at his feet.
“Justice!—great prince!” cried the bold stranger;
“justice and mercy! Listen to one, who has
bled for St. Mark, and who hath his scars for his
witnesses.”
“Justice and mercy are not always companions,”
calmly observed he, who wore the horned bonnet,
motioning to his officious attendants to let the intruder
stay.
“Mighty prince! I come for the last.”
“Who and what art thou?”
“A fisherman of the Lagunes. One named Antonio,
who seeketh the liberty of the prop of his
years—a glorious boy, that force and the policy of
the state have torn from me.”
“This should not be! Violence is not the attribute
laws, and he suffereth for his crimes?”
“He is guilty, Excellent and most Serene Highness,
of youth, and health, and strength, with some
skill in the craft of the mariner. They have taken
him, without warning or consent, for the service of
the galleys, and have left me in my age, alone.”
The expression of pity, which had taken possession
of the venerable features of the prince, changed
instantly to a look of uneasiness and distrust. The
eye, which just before had melted with compassion,
became cold and set in its meaning, and signing to
his guards, he bowed with dignity to the attentive
and curious auditors, among the foreign agents, to
proceed.
“Bear him away,” said an officer, who took his
master's meaning from the glance; “the ceremonies
may not be retarded, for a prayer so idle.”
Antonio offered no resistance, but yielding to the
pressure of those around him, he sunk back meekly,
among the crowd, disappointment and sorrow giving
place, for an instant, to an awe and an admiration
of the gorgeous spectacle, that were perhaps in
some degree inseparable from his condition and
habits. In a few moments, the slight interruption
produced by this short scene, was forgotten in the
higher interest of the occasion.
When the ducal party had taken their places, and
an admiral of reputation was in possession of the
helm, the vast and gorgeous bark, with its gilded
galleries thronged with attendants, swept away from
the quay, with a grand and stately movement. Its
departure was the signal for a new burst of trumpets
and clarions, and for fresh acclamations from
the people. The latter rushed to the edge of the
water, and by the time the Bucentaur had reached
the middle of the port, the stream was black with
the gondolas that followed in her train. In this
some darting ahead of the principal bark, and some
clinging, like smaller fish swimming around the leviathan,
as near to her sides, as the fall of the ponderous
oars would allow. As each effort of the crew
sent the galley farther from the land, the living train
seemed to extend itself, by some secret principle of
expansion; nor was the chain of its apparent connexion
entirely broken, until the Bucentaur had
passed the island, long famous for its convent of religious
Armenians. Here the movement became
slower, in order to permit the thousand gondolas
to approach, and then, the whole moved forward,
in nearly one solid phalanx, to the landing of the
Lido.
The marriage of the Adriatic, as the ceremony
was quaintly termed, has been too often described
to need a repetition here. Our business is rather
with incidents of a private and personal nature than
with descriptions of public events, and we shall pass
over all that has no immediate connexion with the
interest of the tale.
When the Bucentaur became stationary, a space
around her stern was cleared, and the doge appeared
in a rich gallery, so constructed as to exhibit the
action to all in sight. He held a ring, glittering
with precious stones, on high, and, pronouncing the
words of betrothal, he dropped it upon the bosom
of his fancied spouse. Shouts arose, trumpets blew
their blasts, and each lady waved her handkerchief,
in felicitation of the happy union. In the midst of
the fracas—which was greatly heightened by the
roar of cannon on board the cruisers in the channel,
and from the guns in the arsenal—a boat glided into
the open space beneath the gallery of the Bucentaur.
The movement of the arm which directed the light
gondola was dexterous and still strong, though the
hairs of him who held the oar were thin and white.
adorned the state of the prince, and then the look
was changed intently to the water. A small fisherman's
buoy fell from the boat, which glided away
so soon, that, amid the animation and uproar of
that moment, the actin was scarce heeded by the
excited throng.
The aquatic procession now returned towards
the city, the multitude rending the air with shouts
at the happy termination of a ceremony, to which
time and the sanction of the sovereign pontiff had
given a species of sanctity that was somewhat increased
by superstition. It is true that a few among
the Venetians themselves regarded these famous
nuptials of the Adriatic with indifference; and that
several of the ministers of the northern and more
maritime states, who were witnesses on the occasion,
had scarcely concealed, as they cast glances
of intelligence and pride among themselves, their
smiles. Still, such was the influence of habit, for so
much does even arrogant assumption, when long
and perseveringly maintained, count among men,
that neither the increasing feebleness of the republic,
nor the known superiority of other powers on the
very element which this pageant was intended to
represent as the peculiar property of St. Mark, could
yet cover the lofty pretension with the ridicule it
merited. Time has since taught the world that
Venice continued this idle deception for ages after
both reason and modesty should have dictated its
discontinuance; but, at the period of which we
write, that ambitious, crapulous, and factitious state
was rather beginning to feel the symptomatic evidence
of its fading circumstances, than to be fully
conscious of the swift progress of a downward
course. In this manner do communities, like individuals,
draw near their dissolution, inattentive to
the symptoms of decay, until they are overtaken
and their power in the common lot of man.
The Bucentaur did not return directly to the
quay, to disburthen itself of its grave and dignified
load. The gaudy galley anchored in the centre of
the port, and opposite to the wide mouth of the
great canal. Officers had been busy, throughout
the morning, in causing all the shipping and heavy
boats, of which hundreds lay in that principal artery
of the city, to remove from the centre of the passage,
and heralds now summoned the citizens to witness
the regatta, with which the public ceremonies
of the day were to terminate.
Venice, from her peculiar formation and the vast
number of her watermen, had long been celebrated
for this species of amusement. Families were
known and celebrated in her traditions for dexterous
skill with the oar, as they were known in Rome
for feats of a far less useful and of a more barbarous
nature. It was usual to select from these races
of watermen the most vigorous and skilful; and,
after invoking the aid of patron-saints, and arousing
their pride and recollections by songs that recounted
the feats of their ancestors, to start them for the
goal, with every incitement that pride and the love
of victory could awaken.
Most of these ancient usages were still observed.
As soon as the Bucentaur was in its station, some
thirty or forty gondoliers were brought forth, clad
in their gayest habiliments, and surrounded and supported
by crowds of anxious friends and relatives.
The intended competitors were expected to sustain
the long-established reputations of their several
names, and they were admonished of the disgrace
of defeat. They were cheered by the men, and
stimulated by the smiles and tears of the other sex.
The rewards were recalled to their minds; they
were fortified by prayers to the saints; and then
of the multitude, to seek their allotted places beneath
the stern of the galley of state.
It has already been mentioned in these pages, that
the city of Venice is divided into two nearly equal
parts by a channel much broader than that of the
ordinary passages of the town. This dividing
artery, from its superior size and depth, and its
greater importance, is called the grand canal. Its
course is not unlike that of an undulating line, which
greatly increases its length. As it is much used by
the larger boats of the bay—being, in fact, a sort
of secondary port—and its width is so considerable,
it has throughout the whole distance but one bridge
—the celebrated Rialto. The regatta was to be
held on this canal, which offered the requisites of
length and space, and which, as it was lined with
most of the palaces of the principal senators, afforded
all the facilities necessary for viewing the struggle.
In passing from one end of this long course to the
other, the men destined for the race were not permitted
to make any exertion. Their eyes roamed
over the gorgeous hangings, which, as is still wont
throughout Italy on all days of festa, floated from
every window, and on groups of females in rich attire,
brilliant with the peculiar charms of the famed
Venetian beauty, that clustered in the balconies.
Those who were domestics, rose and answered to
the encouraging signals thrown from above, as they
passed the palaces of their masters; while those
who were watermen of the public, endeavored to
gather hope among the sympathizing faces of the
multitude.
At length every formality had been duly observed,
and the competitors assumed their places. The
gondolas were much larger than those commonly
used, and each was manned by three watermen, in
the little deck in the stern, steered, while he aided to
impel the boat. There were light, low staffs in the
bows, with flags, that bore the distinguishing colors
of several noble families of the republic, or which
had such other simple devices as had been suggested
by the fancies of those to whom they belonged.
A few flourishes of the oars, resembling the preparatory
movements which the master of fence makes
ere he begins to push and parry, were given; a
whirling of the boats, like the prancing of curbed
racers, succeeded; and then at the report of a gun,
the whole darted away as if the gondolas were impelled
by volition. The start was followed by a
shout, which passed swiftly along the canal, and an
eager agitation of heads that went from balcony to
balcony, till the sympathetic movement was communicated
to the grave load under which the Bucentaur
labored.
For a few minutes the difference in force and
skill was not very obvious. Each gondola glided
along the element, apparently with that ease with
which a light-winged swallow skims the lake, and
with no visible advantage to any one of the ten.
Then, as more art in him who steered, or greater
powers of endurance in those who rowed, or some
of the latent properties of the boat itself, came into
service, the cluster of little barks, which had come
off like a closely-united flock of birds taking flight
together in alarm, began to open, till they formed a
long and vacillating line, in the centre of the passage.
The whole train shot beneath the bridge, so
near each other as to render it still doubtful which
was to conquer, and the exciting strife came more
in view of the principal personages of the city.
But here those radical qualities, which insure
success in efforts of this nature, manifested themselves.
The weaker began to yield, the train to
those in the front presented the exhilarating spectacle
of success, while those behind offered the still
more noble sight of men struggling without hope.
Gradually the distances between the boats increased,
while that between them and the goal grew rapidly
less, until three of those in advance came in, like
glancing arrows, beneath the stern of the Bucentaur,
with scarce a length between them. The
prize was won, the conquerors were rewarded, and
the artillery gave forth the usual signals of rejoicing.
Music answered to the roar of cannon and the peals
of bells, while sympathy with success, that predominant
and so often dangerous principle of our nature,
drew shouts even from the disappointed.
The clamor ceased, and a herald proclaimed
aloud the commencement of a new and a different
struggle. The last, and what might be termed the
national race, had been limited, by an ancient
usage, to the known and recognized gondoliers of
Venice. The prize had been awarded by the state,
and the whole affair had somewhat of an official
and political character. It was now announced,
however, that a race was to be run, in which the
reward was open to all competitors, without question
as to their origin, or as to their ordinary occupations.
An oar of gold, to which was attached a
chain of the same precious metal, was exhibited as
the boon of the doge to him who showed most dexterity
and strength in this new struggle; while a
similar ornament of silver was to be the portion of
him, who showed the second-best dexterity and bottom.
A mimic boat, of less precious metal, was
the third prize. The gondolas were to be the usual
light vehicles of the canals, and as the object was
to display the peculiar skill of that city of islands,
but one oarsman was allowed to each, on whom
would necessarily fall the whole duty of guiding,
had been engaged in the previous trial were admitted
to this; and all desirous of taking part in the
new struggle were commanded to come beneath the
stern of the Bucentaur, within a prescribed number
of minutes, that note might be had of their wishes.
As notice of this arrangement had been previously
given, the interval between the two races was not
long.
The first who came out of the crowd of boats,
which environed the vacant place that had been left
for the competitors, was a gondolier of the public
landing, well known for his skill with the oar, and
his song on the canal.
“How art thou called, and in whose name dost
thou put thy chance?” demanded the herald of this
aquatic course.
“All know me for Bartolomeo, one who lives between
the Piazzetta and the Lido, and, like a loyal
Venetian, I trust in San Teodoro.”
“Thou art well protected; take thy place, and
await thy fortune.”
The conscious waterman swept the water with a
back stroke of his blade, and the light gondola
whirled away into the centre of the vacant spot, like
a swan giving a sudden glance aside.
“And who art thou?” demanded the official of
the next that came.
“Enrico, a gondolier of Fusina. I come to try
my oar with the braggarts of the canals.”
“In whom is thy trust?”
“Sant' Antonio di Padua.”
“Thou wilt need his aid, though we commend
thy spirit. Enter, and take place.”—“And who art
thou?” he continued, to another, when the second
had imitated the easy skill of the first.
“I am called Gino of Calabria, a gondolier in
private service.”
“What noble retaineth thee?”
“The illustrious and most excellent Don Camillo
Monforte, Duca and Lord of Sant' Agata in Napoli,
and of right a senator in Venice.”
“Thou should'st have come of Padua, friend, by
thy knowledge of the laws! Dost thou trust in him
thou servest for the victory?”
There was a movement among the senators at
the answer of Gino; and the half-terrified varlet
thought he perceived frowns gathering on more
than one brow. He looked around in quest of him
whose greatness he had vaunted, as if he sought
succor.
“Wilt thou name thy support in this great trial
of force?” resumed the herald.
“My master,” uttered the terrified Gino, “St.
Januarius, and St. Mark.”
“Thou art well defended. Should the two latter
fail thee, thou mayest surely count on the first!”
“Signor Monforte has an illustrious name, and
he is welcome to our Venetian sports,” observed the
doge, slightly bending his head towards the young
Calabrian noble, who stood at no great distance, in
a gondola of state, regarding the scene with a deeply-interested
countenance. This cautious interruption
of the pleasantries of the official was acknowledged
by a low reverence, and the matter proceeded.
“Take thy station, Gino of Calabria, and a happy
fortune be thine,” said the latter; then turning to
another, he asked in surprise—“Why art thou
here?”
“I come to try my gondola's swiftness.”
“Thou art old, and unequal to this struggle; husband
thy strength for daily toil. An ill-advised ambition
hath put thee on this useless trial.”
The new aspirant had forced a common fisherman's
gondola, of no bad shape, and of sufficient
signs of its daily uses, beneath the gallery of the
Bucentaur. He received the reproof meekly, and
was about to turn his boat aside, though with a sorrowing
and mortified eye, when a sign from the
doge arrested his arm.
“Question him, as of wont,” said the prince.
“How art thou named?” continued the reluctant
official, who, like all of subordinate condition, had
for more jealousy of the dignity of the sports he directed,
than his superior.
“I am known as Antonio, a fisherman of the Lagunes.”
“Thou art old!”
“Signore, none know it better than I. It is sixty
summers since I first threw net, or line, into the
water.”
“Nor art thou clad, as befitteth one who cometh
before the state of Venice, in a regatta.”
“I am here in the best that I have. Let them
who would do the nobles greater honor, come in
better.”
“Thy limbs are uncovered—thy bosom bare—thy
sinews feeble—go to; thou art ill advised to interrupt
the pleasures of the nobles, by this levity.”
Again Antonio would have shrunk from the ten
thousand eyes that shone upon him, when the calm
voice of the doge once more came to his aid.
“The struggle is open to all,” said the sovereign;
“still I would advise the poor and aged man to take
counsel; give him silver, for want urges him to this
hopeless trial.”
“Thou hearest; alms are offered thee; but give
place to those who are stronger, and more seemly,
for the sport.”
“I will obey, as is the duty of one born and accustomed
to poverty. They said the race was open
meant to do them no dishonor.”
“Justice in the palace, and justice on the canals,”
hastily observed the prince. “If he will continue,
it is his right. It is the pride of St. Mark that his
balances are held with an even hand.”
A murmur of applause succeeded the specious
sentiment, for the powerful rarely affect the noble
attribute of justice, however limited may be its exercise,
without their words finding an echo in the
tongues of the selfish.
“Thou hearest—His Highness, who is the voice
of a mighty state, says thou mayest remain;—
though thou art still advised to withdraw.”
“I will then see what virtue is left in this naked
arm,” returned Antonio, casting a mournful glance,
and one that was not entirely free from the latent
vanity of man, at his meagre and threadbare attire.
“The limb hath its scars, but the infidels may have
spared enough, for the little I ask.”
“In whom is thy faith?”
“Blessed St. Anthony, of the Miraculous
Draught.”
“Take thy place.—Ha! here cometh one unwilling
to be known! How now! who appears with so
false a face?”
“Call me, Mask.”
“So neat and just a leg and arm, need not have
hid their fellow, the countenance. Is it Your Highness's
pleasure that one disguised should be entered
for the sports?”
“Doubt it not. A mask is sacred in Venice. It
is the glory of our excellent and wise laws, that he
who seeketh to dwell within the privacy of his own
thoughts, and to keep aloof from curiosity by shadowing
his features, rangeth our streets and canals,
as if he dwelt in the security of his own abode.
Such are the high privileges of liberty, and such it
and a free state!”
A thousand bowed in approbation of the sentiment,
and a rumor passed, from mouth to mouth,
that a young noble was about to try his strength,
in the regatta, in compliment to some wayward
beauty.
“Such is justice!” exclaimed the herald, in a loud
voice, admiration apparently overcoming respect, in
the ardor of the moment. “Happy is he that is
born in Venice, and envied are the people in whose
councils, wisdom and mercy preside, like lovely and
benignant sisters! On whom dost thou rely?”
“Mine own arm.”
“Ha! This is impious! None so presuming may
enter into these privileged sports.”
The hurried exclamation of the herald was accompanied
by a general stir, such as denotes sudden
and strong emotion in a multitude.
“The children of the republic are protected by an
even hand,” observed the venerable prince. “It
formeth our just pride, and blessed St. Mark forbid
that aught resembling vain-glory should be uttered!
but it is truly our boast that we know no difference
between our subjects of the islands, or those of the
Dalmatian coast; between Padua, or Candia; Corfu,
or St. Giorgio. Still it is not permitted for any to
refuse the intervention of the saints.”
“Name thy patron, or quit the place,” continued
the observant herald, anew.
The stranger paused, as if he looked into his
mind, and then he answered—
“San Giovanni of the Wilderness.”
“Thou namest one of blessed memory!”
“I name him who may have pity on me, in this
living desert.”
“The temper of thy soul is best known to thyself,
but this reverend rank of patricians, yonder brilliant
claim another name.—Take thy place.”
While the herald proceeded to take the names of
three or four more applicants, all gondoliers in private
service, a murmur ran through the spectators,
which proved how much their interest and curiosity
had been awakened, by the replies and appearance
of the two last competitors. In the mean time, the
young nobles who entertained those who came last,
began to move among the throng of boats, with the
intention of making such manifestations of their
gallant desires, and personal devotion, as suited the
customs and opinions of the age. The list was now
proclaimed to be full, and the gondolas were towed
off, as before, towards the starting point, leaving the
place, beneath the stern of the Bucentaur, vacant.
The scene that followed, consequently passed directly
before the eyes of those grave men, who charged
themselves with most of the private interests, as
well as with the public concerns of Venice.
There were many unmasked and high-born dames,
whirling about in their boats, attended by cavaliers
in rich attire, and, here and there, appeared a pair
of dark lustrous eyes, peeping through the silk of a
visor, that concealed some countenance too youthful
for exposure, in so gay a scene. One gondola, in
particular, was remarked for the singular grace and
beauty of the form it held, qualities which made
themselves apparent, even through the half-disguise
of the simple habiliments she wore. The boat, the
servants, and the ladies, for there were two, were
alike distinguished for that air of severe but finished
simplicity, which oftener denotes the presence of
high quality and true taste, than a more lavish expenditure
of vulgar ornament. A Carmelite, whose
features were concealed by his cowl, testified that
their condition was high, and lent a dignity to their
presence, by his reverend and grave protection. A
as many fruitless efforts to penetrate the disguises,
glided away, while whispers and interrogatories
passed from one to the other, to learn the name and
station of the youthful beauty. At length, a gay
bark, with watermen in gorgeous liveries, and in
whose equipment there was a studied display of
magnificence, came into the little circle that curiosity
had drawn together. The single cavalier, who
occupied the seat, arose, for few gondolas appeared
that day with their gloomy-looking and mysterious
pavilions, and saluted the masked females, with the
ease of one accustomed to all presences, but with
the reserve of deep respect.
“I have a favorite follower in this race,” he said
gallantly, “and one in whose skill and force I put
great trust. Until now, I have uselessly sought a
lady of a beauty and merit so rare, as to warrant
that I should place his fortune on her smiles. But
I seek no farther.”
“You are gifted with a keen sight, Signore, that
you discover all you seek beneath these masks,” returned
one of the two females, while their companion,
the Carmelite, bowed graciously to the compliment,
which seemed little more than was warranted
by the usage of such scenes.
“There are other means of recognition than the
eyes, and other sources of admiration than the
senses, lady. Conceal yourselves as you will, here do
I know that I am near the fairest face, the warmest
heart, and the purest mind of Venice!”
“This is bold augury, Signore,” returned she, who
was evidently the oldest of the two, glancing a look
at her companion, as if to note the effect of this
gallant speech. “Venice has a name for the beauty
of its dames, and the sun of Italy warms many a
generous heart.”
“Better that such noble gifts should be directed
murmured the monk.
“Some there are, holy father, who have admiration
for both. Such I would fain hope is the happy
lot of her who is favored with the spiritual counsel
of one so virtuous and wise as yourself. Here I
place my fortune, let what may follow; and here
would I gladly place a heavier stake, were it
permitted.”
As the cavalier spoke, he tendered to the silent
fair a bouquet of the sweetest and most fragrant
flowers; and among them were those to which
poets and custom have ascribed the emblematic
qualities of constancy and love. She, to whom this
offering of gallantry was made, hesitated to accept
it. It much exceeded the reserve imposed on one
of her station and years, to allow of such homage
from the other sex, though the occasion was generally
deemed one that admitted of more than usual
gallantry; and she evidently shrunk, with the sensitiveness
of one whose feelings were unpractised,
from an homage so public.
“Receive the flowers, my love,” mildly whispered
her companion; “the cavalier who offers them simply
intends to show the quality of his breeding.”
“That will be seen in the end,” hastily returned
Don Camillo—for it was he. “Signore, adieu; we
have met on this water when there was less restraint
between us.”
He bowed, and signing to his gondolier, was
quickly lost in the crowd of boats. Ere the barks,
however, were separated, the mask of the silent
fair was slightly moved, as if she sought relief from
the air; and the Neapolitan was rewarded for his
gallantry, by a momentary glance at the glowing
countenance of Violetta.
“Thy guardian hath a displeased eye,” hurriedly
should be known!”
“I should more wonder that we were not. I
could recall the noble Neapolitan cavalier amid a
million! Thou dost not remember all that I owe
to him!”
Donna Florinda did not answer; but, in secret,
she offered up a fervent prayer that the obligation
might be blessed to the future happiness of her who
had received it. There was a furtive and uneasy
glance between her and the Carmelite; but, as
neither spoke, a long and thoughtful silence succeeded
the rencontre.
From this musing, the party, in common with all
the gay and laughing multitude by which they were
surrounded, were reminded of the business on
which they were assembled by the signal-gun, the
agitation on the great canal nearest the scene of
strife, and a clear blast of the trumpets. But in order
that the narrative may proceed regularly, it is
fit that we should return, a little, in the order of
time.
| CHAPTER VIII. The bravo | |