 | CHAPTER II. The bravo |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
Hast ever swam in a gondola at Venice?
Shakspeare.
When Don Camillo Monforte entered the gondola,
he did not take his seat in the pavilion. With an
arm leaning on the top of the canopy, and his cloak
thrown loosely over one shoulder, the young noble
stood, in a musing attitude, until his dexterous servitors
had extricated the boat from the little fleet
which crowded the quay, and had urged it into open
water. This duty performed, Gino touched his
scarlet cap, and looked at his master, as if to inquire
the direction in which they were to proceed. He
was answered by a silent gesture, that indicated the
route of the great canal.
“Thou hast an ambition, Gino, to show thy skill
in the regatta?” Don Camillo observed, when they
had made a little progress. “The motive merits
I summoned thee to the gondola?”
“I was asking the news of our Calabrian hills
from one who has come into port with his felucca;
though the man took the name of San Gennaro to
witness that his former luckless voyage should be
the last.”
“How does he call his felucca, and what is the
name of the padrone?”
“La Bella Sorrentina, commanded by a certain
Stefano Milano, son of an ancient servant of Sant'
Agata. The bark is none of the worst for speed,
and it has some reputation for beauty. It ought to
be of happy fortune, too, for the good curato recommended
it, with many a devout prayer, to the Virgin
and to San Francesco.”
The noble appeared to lend more attention to the
discourse, which, until now, on his part, had been
commenced in the listless manner with which a superior
encourages an indulged dependant.
“La Bella Sorrentina! Have I not reason to
know the bark?”
“Nothing more true, Signore. Her padrone has
relations at Sant' Agata, as I have told your eccellenza,
and his vessel has lain on the beach, near the
castle, many a bleak winter.”
“What brings him to Venice?”
“That is what I would give my newest jacket of
your eccellenza's colors to know, Signore. I have
as little wish to inquire into other people's affairs as
any one, and I very well know that discretion is the
chief virtue of a gondolier. I ventured, however,
a deadly hint concerning his errand, such as ancient
neighborhood would warrant, but he was as
cautious of his answers as if he were freighted
with the confessions of fifty Christians. Now, if
your eccellenza should see fit to give me authority
to question him, in your name, the deuce is in't if,
we could not draw something more than a false bill
of lading from him.”
“Thou wilt take thy choice of my gondolas for
the regatta, Gino,” observed the Duke of Sant'
Agata, entering the pavilion, and throwing himself
on the glossy black leathern cushions, without adverting
to the suggestion of his servant.
The gondola continued its noiseless course, with
the sprite-like movement peculiar to that description
of boat. Gino, who, as superior over his fellow,
stood perched on the little arched deck in the stern,
pushed his oar with accustomed readiness and skill,
now causing the light vessel to sheer to the right,
and now to the left, as it glided among the multitude
of crafts, of all sizes and uses, which it met in its
passage. Palace after palace had been passed, and
more than one of the principle canals, which diverged
towards the different spectacles, or the other
places of resort frequented by his master, were left
behind, without Don Camillo giving any new direction.
At length the boat arrived opposite to a building,
which seemed to excite more than common expectation.
Giorgio worked his oar with a single
hand, looking over his shoulder at Gino, and Gino
permitted his blade fairly to trail on the water. Both
seemed to await new orders, manifesting something
like that species of instinctive sympathy with him
they served, which a long practised horse is apt to
show when he draws near a gate, that is seldom
passed unvisited by his driver.
The edifice which caused this hesitation in the
two gondoliers, was one of those residences of Venice,
which are quite as remarkable for their external
riches and ornaments, as for their singular situation
amid the waters. A massive rustic basement
of marble was seated as solidly in the element, as
if it grew from a living rock, while story was seemingly
the most capricious rules of meretricious architecture,
until the pile reached an altitude that is little
known, except in the dwellings of princes. Colonnades,
medallions, and massive cornices, overhung
the canal, as if the art of man had taken pride in
loading the superstructure in a manner to mock the
unstable element which concealed its base. A flight
of steps, on which each gentle undulation produced
by the passage of the barge washed a wave, conducted
to a vast vestibule, that answered many of
the purposes of a court. Two or three gondolas
were moored near, but the absence of their people
showed they were for the use of those who dwelt
within. The boats were protected from rough collision
with the passing craft, by piles driven obliquely
into the bottom. Similar spars, with painted and
ornamented heads, that sometimes bore the colors
and arms of the proprietor, formed a sort of little
haven for the gondolas of the household, before the
door of every dwelling of mark.
“Where is it the pleasure of your eccellenza to be
rowed?” asked Gino, when he found his sympathetic
delay had produced no order.
“To the Palazzo.”
Giorgio threw a glance of surprise back at his
comrade, but the obedient gondola shot by the
gloomy, though rich abode, as if the little bark had
suddenly obeyed an inward impulse. In a moment
more, it whirled aside, and the hollow sound, caused
by the plash of water between high walls, announced
its entrance into a narrower canal. With shortened
oars, the men still urged the boat ahead, now
turning short into some new channel, now glancing
beneath a low bridge, and now uttering, in the
sweet shrill tones of the country and their craft, the
well-known warning to those who were darting in
an opposite direction. A back-stroke of Gino's oar,
to a flight of steps.
“Thou wilt follow me,” said Don Camillo, as he
placed his foot, with the customary caution, on the
moist stone, and laid a hand on the shoulder of Gino;
“I have need of thee.”
Neither the vestibule, nor the entrance, nor the
other visible accessories of the dwelling, were so
indicative of luxury and wealth as that of the
palace on the great canal. Still, they were all such
as denoted the residence of a noble of consideration.
“Thou wilt do wisely, Gino, to trust thy fortunes
to the new gondola,” said the master, as he mounted
the heavy stone stairs, to an upper floor, pointing as
he spoke to a new and beautiful boat, which lay in
a corner of the large vestibule, as carriages are seen
standing in the courts of houses built on more solid
ground. “He who would find favor with Jupiter
must put his own shoulder to the wheel, thou knowest,
my friend.”
The eye of Gino brightened, and he was voluble
in his expression of thanks. They had ascended to
the first floor, and were already deep in a suit of
gloomy apartments, before the gratitude and professional
pride of the gondolier were exhausted.
“Aided by a powerful arm and a fleet gondola,
thy chance will be as good as another's, Gino,” said
Don Camillo, closing the door of his cabinet on his
servant; “at present, thou mayest give some proof
of zeal in my service, in another manner. Is the
face of a man called Jacopo Frontoni known to
thee?”
“Eccellenza!” exclaimed the gondolier, gasping
for breath.
“I ask thee if thou knowest the countenance of
one named Frontoni?”
“His countenance, Signore!”
“By what else would'st thou distinguish a man?”
“A man, Signor' Don Camillo!”
“Art thou mocking thy master, Gino? I have
asked thee if thou art acquainted with the person
of a certain Jacopo Frontoni; a dweller here in
Venice?”
“Eccellenza, yes.”
“He I mean has been long remarked by the misfortunes
of his family, the father being now in exile
on the Dalmatian coast, or elsewhere.”
“Eccellenza, yes.”
“There are many of the name of Frontoni, and
it is important that thou should'st not mistake the
man. Jacopo, of that family, is a youth of some
five-and-twenty, of an active frame and melancholy
visage, and of less vivacity of temperament, than is
wont, at his years.”
“Eccellenza, yes.”
“One who resorts but little with his fellows, and
who is rather noted for the silence and industry
with which he attends to his concerns, than for any
of the usual pleasantries and trifling of men of his
cast. A certain Jacopo Frontoni, that hath his
abode somewhere near the arsenal?”
“Cospetto! Signor' Duca, the man is as well
known to us gondoliers, as the bridge of the Rialto!
Your eccellenza has no need to trouble yourself to
describe him.”
Don Camillo Monforte was searching among the
papers of a secretary. He raised his eyes in some
little amazement, at the sally of his dependant, and
then he quietly resumed his occupation.
“If thou knowest the man, it is enough.”
“Eccellenza, yes. And what is your pleasure
with this accursed Jacopo?”
The Duke of Sant' Agata seemed to recollect himself.
He replaced the papers which had been deranged,
and he closed the secretary.
“Gino,” he said, in a tone of confidence and amity,
trained here to the oar in Venice, and thou hast
passed thy life in my service.”
“Eccellenza, yes.”
“It is my desire that thou should'st end thy days
where they began. I have had much confidence in
thy discretion, hitherto, and I have satisfaction in
saying it has never failed thee, notwithstanding thou
hast necessarily been a witness of some exploits of
youth, which might have drawn embarrassment
on thy master, were thy tongue less disposed to silence.”
“Eccellenza, yes.”
Don Camillo smiled; but the gleam of humor
gave way to a look of grave and anxious thought.
“As thou knowest the person of him I have
named, our affair is simple. Take this packet,” he
continued, placing a sealed letter of more than usual
size into the hand of the gondolier, and drawing
from his finger a signet ring, “with this token of
thy authority. Within that arch of the Doge's palace,
which leads to the canal of San Marco, beneath
the Bridge of Sighs, thou wilt find Jacopo. Give
him the packet; and should he demand it, withhold
not the ring. Wait his bidding, and return with the
answer.”
Gino received this commission with profound respect,
but with an awe he could not conceal. Habitual
deference to his master appeared to struggle
with deep distaste for the office he was required to
perform; and there was even some manifestation
of a more principled reluctance, in his hesitating
yet humble manner. If Don Camillo noted the air
and countenance of his menial at all, he effectually
concealed it.
“At the arched passage of the palace, beneath
the Bridge of Sighs,” he coolly added; “and let
first hour of the night.”
“I would, Signore, that you had been pleased to
command Giorgio and me to row you to Padua!”
“The way is long. Why this sudden wish to
weary thyself?”
“Because there is no Doge's palace, nor any
Bridge of Sighs, nor any dog of Jacopo Frontoni,
among the meadows.”
“Thou hast little relish for this duty; but thou
must know that what the master commands, it is
the duty of a faithful follower to perform. Thou
wert born my vassal, Gino Monaldi, and though
trained from boyhood in this occupation of a gondolier,
thou art properly a being of my fiefs, in
Napoli.”
“St. Gennaro make me grateful for the honor,
Signore! But there is not a water-seller in the
streets of Venice, nor a mariner on her canals, who
does not wish this Jacopo anywhere but in the bosom
of Abraham. He is the terror of every young
lover, and of all the urgent creditors on the islands.”
“Thou seest, silly babbler, there is one of the
former, at least, who does not hold him in dread.
Thou wilt seek him beneath the Bridge of Sighs,
and, showing the signet, deliver the package according
to my instructions.”
“It is certain loss of character to be seen speaking
with the miscreant! So lately as yesterday, I
heard Annina, the pretty daughter of the old wine-seller
on the Lido, declare, that to be seen once in
company with Jacopo Frontoni was as bad as to be
caught twice bringing old rope from the arsenal, as
befell Roderigo, her mother's cousin.”
“Thy distinctions savor of the morals of the
Lido. Remember to exhibit the ring, lest he distrust
thy errand.”
“Could not your eccellenza set me about clipping
than Tiziano di Vecelli? I have a mortal dislike
even to pass the mere compliments of the day with
one of your cut-throats. Were any of our gondoliers
to see me in discourse with the man, it might
exceed your eccellenza's influence to get me a place
in the regatta.”
“If he detain thee, Gino, thou wilt wait his pleasure;
and if he dismiss thee at once, return hither
with all expedition, that I may know the result.”
“I very well know, Signor Don Camillo, that the
honor of a noble is more tender of reproach than
that of his followers, and that the stain upon the
silken robe of a senator is seen farther than the
spot upon a velvet jacket. If any one unworthy of
your eccellenza's notice has dared to offend, here
are Giorgio and I, ready, at any time, to show how
deeply we can feel an indignity which touches our
master's credit; but a hireling of two, or ten, or
even of a hundred sequins!”
“I thank thee for the hint, Gino. Go thou and
sleep in thy gondola, and bid Giorgio come into my
cabinet.”
“Signore!”
“Art thou resolute to do none of my biddings?”
“Is it your eccellenza's pleasure that I go to the
Bridge of Sighs by the footways of the streets, or
by the canals?”
“There may be need of a gondola—thou wilt go
with the oar.”
“A tumbler shall not have time to turn round before
the answer of Jacopo shall be here.”
With this sudden change of purpose, the gondolier
quitted the room; for the reluctance of Gino disappeared
the moment he found the confidential duty
assigned him by his master was likely to be performed
by another. Descending rapidly, by a secret
stairs, instead of entering the vestibule, where
in waiting, he passed by one of the narrow corridors
of the palace into an inner court, and thence
by a low and unimportant gate into an obscure
alley, which communicated with the nearest street.
Though the age is one of so great activity and
intelligence, and the Atlantic is no longer a barrier
even to the ordinary amusements of life, a great
majority of Americans have never had an opportunity
of personally examining the remarkable features
of a region, of which the town that Gino now
threaded with so much diligence, is not the least
worthy of observation. Those who have been so
fortunate as to have visited Italy, therefore, will excuse
us if we make a brief, but what we believe
useful, digression, for the benefit of those who have
not had that advantage.
The city of Venice stands on a cluster of low,
sandy islands. It is probable that the country which
lies nearest to the gulf, if not the whole of the immense
plain of Lombardy itself, is of alluvial formation.
Whatever may have been the origin of that
wide and fertile kingdom, the causes which have
given to the Lagunes their existence, and to Venice
its unique and picturesque foundation, are too apparent
to be mistaken. Several torrents, which flow
from the valleys of the Alps, pour their tribute into
the Adriatic at this point. Their waters come
charged with the débris of the mountains, pulverized
nearly to their original elements. Released from
the violence of the stream, these particles have necessarily
been deposited in the gulf, at the spot
where they have first become subjected to the power
of the sea. Under the influence of counteracting
currents, eddies, and waves, the sands have been
thrown into submarine piles, until some of the banks
have arisen above the surface, forming islands,
whose elevation has been gradually augmented by
show that, while the Gulf of Venice is not literally,
it is, practically, considered with reference to the
effect produced by the south-east wind called the Sirocco,
at the head of the Adriatic. This accidental
circumstance is probably the reason why the Lagunes
have a more determined character at the
mouths of the minor streams that empty themselves
here, than at the mouths of most of the other rivers,
which equally flow from the Alps or the Apennines,
into the same shallow sea.
The natural consequence of a current of a river
meeting the waters of any broad basin, and where
there is no base of rock, is the formation, at or near
the spot where the opposing actions are neutralized,
of a bank, which is technically called a bar. The
coast of the Union furnishes constant evidence of
the truth of this theory, every river having its bar,
with channels that are often shifted, or cleared, by
the freshets, the gales, or the tides. The constant
and powerful operation of the south-eastern winds
on one side, with the periodical increase of the Alpine
streams on the other, have converted this bar
at the entrance of the Venetian Lagunes, into a
succession of long, low, sandy islands, which extend
in a direct line, nearly across the mouth of the gulf.
The waters of the rivers have necessarily cut a few
channels for their passage, or, what is now a lagune,
would long since have become a lake. Another
thousand years may so far change the character of
this extraordinary estuary, as to convert the channels
of the bay into rivers, and the muddy banks
into marshes and meadows, resembling those that
are now seen for so many leagues inland.
The low margin of sand that, in truth, gives all
its maritime security to the port of Venice and the
Lagunes, is called the Lido di Palestrino. It has
been artificially connected and secured, in many
though incomplete, like most of the great and vaunted
works of the other hemisphere, and more particularly
of Italy, ranks with the mole of Ancona,
and the sea-wall of Cherbourg. The hundred little
islands which now contain the ruins of what, during
the middle ages, was the mart of the Mediterranean,
are grouped together within cannon-shot
of the natural barrier. Art has united with nature
to turn the whole to good account; and, apart from
the influence of moral causes, the rivalry of a
neighboring town, which has been fostered by political
care, and the gradual filling up of the waters,
by the constant deposit of the streams, it would be
difficult to imagine a more commodious, or a safer
haven when entered, than that which Venice affords,
even to this hour.
As all the deeper channels of the Lagunes have
been preserved, the city is intersected, in every direction,
by passages, which, from their appearance,
are called canals, but which, in truth, are no more
than so many small natural branches of the sea.
On the margin of these passages, the walls of the
dwellings arise literally from out of the water, since
economy of room has caused their owners to extend
their possessions to the very verge of the channel,
in the manner that quays and wharfs are pushed
into the streams in our own country. In many instances
the islands themselves were no more than
banks, which were periodically bare, and on all,
the use of piles has been necessary to support the
superincumbent loads of palaces, churches, and
public monuments, under which, in the course of
ages, the humble spits of sand have been made to
groan.
The great frequency of the canals, and perhaps
some attention to economy of labor, has given to
by far the greater part of the buildings the facility
dwelling has one of its fronts on a canal, there are
always communications by the rear with the interior
passages of the town. It is a fault in most descriptions,
that while the stranger hears so much
of the canals of Venice, but little is said of her
streets: still, narrow, paved, commodious, and
noiseless passages, of this description, intersect all
the islands, which communicate with each other by
means of a countless number of bridges. Though
the hoof of a horse, or the rumbling of a wheel is
never heard in these strait avenues, they are of
great resort for all the purposes of ordinary intercourse.
Gino issued into one of these thoroughfares, when
he quitted the private passage which communicated
with the palace of his master. He threaded the
throng by which it was crowded, with a dexterity
that resembled the windings of an eel, among the
weeds of the Lagunes. To the numerous greetings
of his fellows, he replied only by nods; nor did he
once arrest his footsteps, until they had led him
through the door of a low and dark dwelling, that
stood in a quarter of the place which was inhabited
by people of an inferior condition. Groping his
way among casks, cordage, and rubbish of all descriptions,
the gondolier succeeded in finding an
inner and retired door, that opened into a small
room, whose only light came from a species of
well, that descended between the walls of the adjacent
houses and that in which he was.
“Blessed St. Anne! Is it thou, Gino Monaldi!”
exclaimed a smart Venetian grisette, whose tones
and manner betrayed as much of coquetry as of
surprise. “On foot, and by the secret door; is this
an hour to come on any of thy errands?”
“Truly, Annina, it is not the season for affairs
with thy father, and it is something early for a visit
action, just now. For the sake of San Teodoro,
and that of a constant and silly young man, who,
if not thy slave, is at least thy dog, bring forth the
jacket I wore when we went together to see the
merry-making at Fusina.”
“I know nothing of thy errand, Gino, nor of thy
reason for wishing to change thy master's livery
for the dress of a common boatman. Thou art far
more comely with those silken flowers, than in this
faded velveteen; and if I have ever said aught in
commendation of its appearance, it was because
we were bent on merry-making, and being one of
the party, it would have been churlish to have
withheld a word of praise to a companion, who,
as thou knowest, does not dislike a civil speech in
his own praise.”
“Zitto, zitto! here is no merry-making and companions,
but a matter of gravity, and one that
must be performed off-hand. The jacket, if thou
lovest me!”
Annina, who had not neglected essentials while
she moralized on motives, threw the garment on a
stool, that stood within reach of the gondolier's
hand, as he made this strong appeal, in a way to
show that she was not to be surprised out of a
confession of this sort, even in the most unguarded
moment.
“If I love thee, truly! Thou hast the jacket,
Gino, and thou mayest search in its pockets for an
answer to thy letter, for which I do not thank thee
for having got the duca's secretary to indite. A
maiden should be discreet in affairs of this sort,
for one never knows but he may make a confidant
of a rival.”
“Every word of it as true as if the devil himself
had done the office for me, girl,” muttered Gino,
uncasing himself from his flowery vestment, and as
“The cap, Annina, and the mask?”
“One who wears so false a face, in common, has
little need of a bit of silk to conceal his countenance,”
she answered, throwing him, notwithstanding,
both the articles he required.
“This is well—Father Battista himself, who
boasts he can tell a sinner from a penitent merely
by the savor of his presence, would never suspect
a servitor of Don Camillo Monforte in this dress!
Cospetto! but I have half a mind to visit that knave
of a Jew, who has got thy golden chain in pledge,
and give him a hint of what may be the consequences,
should he insist on demanding double the
rate of interest we agreed on.”
“'Twould be Christian justice! but what would
become of thy matter of gravity the while, Gino,
and of thy haste to enter on its performance?”
“Thou sayest truly, girl. Duty, above all other
things; though to frighten a grasping Hebrew may
be as much of a duty as other matters. Are all
thy father's gondolas in the water?”
“How else could he be gone to the Lido, and
my brother Luigi to Fusini, and the two serving-men
on the usual business to the islands, or how
else should I be alone?”
“Diavolo! is there no boat in the canal?”
“Thou art in unwonted haste, Gino, now thou
hast a mask and a jacket of velvet! I know not
that I should suffer one to enter my father's house,
when I am in it alone, and take such disguises to go
abroad, at this hour. Thou wilt tell me thy errand,
that I may judge of the propriety of what I do.”
“Better ask the Three Hundred to open the
leaves of their book of doom! Give me the key of
the outer door, girl, that I may go my way.”
“Not till I know whether this business is likely to
senate. Thou knowest, Gino, that I am—”
“Diamine! There goes the clock of San Marco,
and I tarry past my hour. If I am too late, the
fault will rest with thee!”
“'Twill not be the first of thy oversights, which
it has been my business to excuse. Here thou art,
and here shalt thou remain, until I know the errand
which calls for a mask and jacket, and all about
this matter of gravity.”
“This is talking like a jealous wife, instead of a
reasonable girl, Annina. I have told thee that I am
on business of the last importance, and that delay
may bring heavy calamities.”
“On whom?—What is thy business? Why art
thou, whom in general it is necessary to warn from
this house by words many times repeated, now in
such a haste to leave it?”
“Have I not told thee, girl, 'tis an errand of
great concern to six noble families, and if I fail to
be in season, there may be a strife—ay, between
the Florentine and the republic!”
“Thou hast said nothing of the sort, nor do I
put faith in thy being an ambassador of San Marco.
Speak truth for once, Gino Monaldi, or lay aside
the mask and jacket, and take up thy flowers of
Sant' Agata.”
“Well, then, as we are friends, and I have faith
in thy discretion, Annina, thou shalt know the truth
to the extremity, for I find the bell has only tolled
the quarters, which leaves me yet a moment for
confidence.”
“Thou lookest at the wall, Gino, and art consulting
thy wits for some plausible lie!”
“I look at the wall because conscience tells me
that too much weakness for thee is about to draw
me astray from duty. What thou takest for deceit
is only shame and modesty.”
“Of that we shall judge, when the tale is told.”
“Then listen. Thou hast heard of the affair
between my master and the niece of the Roman
Marchese, who was drowned in the Giudecca, by
the carelessness of an Ancona-man, who passed
over the gondola of Pietro as if his felucca had
been a galley of state?”
“Who has been upon the Lido, the mouth past,
without hearing the tale repeated, with every variation
of a gondolier's anger?”
“Well, the matter is likely to come to a conclusion
this night; my master is about to do, as I fear,
a very foolish thing!”
“He will be married?”
“Or worse;—I am sent, in all haste and secrecy,
in search of a priest.”
Annina manifested strong interest in the fiction
of the gondolier. Either from a distrustful temperament,
long habit, or great familiarity with the
character of her companion, however, she did not
listen to his explanation without betraying some
doubts of its truth.
“This will be a sudden bridal feast!” she said,
after a moment of pause.—“'Tis well that few are
invited, or its savor might be spoiled by the Three
Hundred! To what convent art thou sent?”
“My errand is not particular. The first that may
be found, provided he be a Franciscan, and a priest
likely to have bowels for lovers in haste.”
“Don Camillo Monforte, the heir of an ancient
and great line, does not wive with so little caution.
Thy false tongue has been trying to deceive me,
Gino; but long use should have taught thee the folly
of the effort. Unless thou sayest truth, not only
shalt thou not go to thy errand, but here art thou
prisoner at my pleasure.”
“I may have told thee what I expect will shortly
happen, rather than what has happened. But Don
that I do little beside dream, when not at the oar.”
“It is vain to attempt deceiving me, Gino, for
thine eye speaketh truth, let thy tongue and brains
wander where they will. Drink of this cup, and
disburthen thy conscience, like a man.”
“I would that thy father would make the acquaintance
of Stefano Milano!” resumed the gondolier,
taking a long breath, after a still longer
draught. “'Tis a padrone of Calabria, who often-times
brings into the port excellent liquors of his
country, and who would pass a cask of the red
lachrymæ christi through the Broglio itself, and not
a noble of them all should see it. The man is here
at present, and, if thou wilt, he shall not be long
without coming into terms with thee for a few
skins.”
“I doubt if he have better liquors than this which
hath ripened upon the sands of the Lido. Take another
draught, for the second taste is thought to be
better than the first.”
“If the wine improve in this manner, thy father
should be heavy-hearted at the sight of the lees
'Twould be no more than charity to bring him and
Stefano acquainted.”
“Why not do it, immediately? His felucca is in
the port, thou sayest, and thou canst lead him hither
by the secret door and the lanes.”
“Thou forgettest my errand. Don Camillo is not
used to be served the second. Cospetto! 'Twere a
pity that any other got the liquor which I am certain
the Calabrian has in secret.”
“This errand can be no matter of a moment, like
that of being sure of wine of the quality thou
namest; or, if it be, thou canst first dispatch thy
master's business, and then to the port, in quest
of Stefano. That the purchase may not fail, I
will take a mask and be thy companion, to see
much confidence in my judgment in matters like
this.”
While Gino stood half stupified, and half delighted
at this proposition, the ready and wily Annina
made some slight change in her outer garments,
placed a silken mask before her face, applied a key
to the door, and beckoned to the gondolier to follow.
The canal, with which the dwelling of the wine-dealer
communicated, was narrow, gloomy, and
little frequented. A gondola of the plainest description
was fastened near, and the girl entered it, without
appearing to think any further arrangement necessary.
The servant of Don Camillo hesitated a
single instant, but having seen that his half-meditated
project of escaping by the use of another boat,
could not be accomplished for want of means, he
took his wonted place in the stern, and began to ply
the oar with mechanical readiness.
| CHAPTER II. The bravo | |