University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

“One lingers thoughtfully among the ruins of Jamestown. It
is, of course, the mere site which will now interest you in its contemplation.
There is little or nothing to be seen. It is the association
only, the genius loci, that offers provocation to the contemplative
spirit. You behold nothing but an empty and long-abandoned
nest; but it is the nest of one of those maternal birds
whose prolific nature has filled the nations. The ruins which
remain of Jamestown consist only of a single tower of the old
church. In the dense coppice near it, you see the ancient piles
which cover the early dead of the settlement. The tower is a
somewhat picturesque object by itself, though it depends for its
charm chiefly on its historical associations. It is enough of the
ruin for the romantic, and, seen by moonlight, the arches and
the “rents of ruin,” through which ivy and lichen, shrub and
creeper, make their appearance, are objects which fancy will
find precious to those even who never turn the pages of our
musty chronicles, and hear nothing of the mournful whispers of
the past. What stores of tradition, wild song and wilder story,
are yet to be turned up with the soil of this neighborhood, or
laid bare in the search among the ruins of this ancient tower.
Could it only speak, what a fascinating history would it reveal.
What glorious traditions ought to invest the locality. What
memories are awakened by its simple mention. What pictures
does it not paint to the fancy and the thought!”

“Talking of traditions of the `Old Dominion,' I am reminded
of one which was told me many years ago by a fellow traveller,
as we pursued our way up James river. He insisted that there
were good authorities for the story which I had rashly imputed
to his own invention. He was one of those persons who never

scruple at a manufacture of their own, when the thing wanted
is not exactly ready to their hands, and I dare not answer for
the chronicle.”

“Let us have it by all means.”

The ladies seconded the entreaty, and our fellow-voyager began.

“You are aware,” said he, “that in the early settlement of
Virginia, as perhaps in the case of all colonists in a new country,
there is always at first a lamentable dearth of women. The
pioneers were greatly at a loss what to do for wives and housekeepers.
Nothing could be more distressing.”

“As Campbell sings it, of a more select region —

“Precisely! Our Virginians felt particularly lonesome along
the wildernesses of James river, as is the case even now with
our Californians along the Sacramento and other golden waters.”

“Nay, they are much more charitable now. The gold regions
are not so barren of beauty as you think. This may be
owing to the greater safety of the enterprise. In 1600 a young
woman incurred some peril of losing a scalp while seeking a
swain in the territories of that fierce Don of Potomacke, Powhatan.”

“The danger certainly was of a sort to demand consideration.
It was one which the old girls might be permitted to meditate
almost as cautiously as the young ones. At all events, our
`guid folk' in the Old Dominion felt the need of a supply, the
demand being no less earnest than pressing. They commissioned
their friends and agents in England to supply their wants with
all despatch, making the required qualifications as moderate and
few as possible, the better to insure the probability of being provided.
The proprietaries, after a solemn counsel together, arrived
at the conclusion that the requisition was by no means an
unreasonable one; a conclusion to which they arrived more
readily from the great interest which their own wives respectively
took in the discussion. Efforts were accordingly made
for meeting the wishes of the colonists. Advertisements, which,
it is said, are still to be found in the news organs of the day —
were put forth in London and elsewhere, announcing the nature
of the demand and soliciting the supply. Much, of course, was

said in favor of the beauty and resources of the country in which
they were expected to seek a home. Much also was urged in
behalf of the individual settlers, whose demands were most urgent.
`They were of good health and body, very able and diligent,
men of moral and muscle, very capable of maintaining
church and state, and contributing in a thousand ways to the
growth and good of both.' Certain of them were especially
described with names given, not omitting sundry cogent particulars
in respect to their moneyed means, employments, and general
worldly condition. In brief, able-bodied, well-limbed and well-visaged
young women, were assured of finding themselves well
matched and honorably housed within the sylvan paradise of
Powhatan, as soon as they should arrive. The advertisements
prudently forbore to insist upon any special certificates — so
necessary when housemaids are to be chosen — of character and
manners. A small bounty, indeed, was offered with outfit and
free passage.

“The appeal to the gentle hearts and Christian charities of the
sex, was not made in vain. A goodly number soon offered
themselves for the adventure, most of whom were supposed likely
to meet the wishes of the hungry colonists. The standards were
not overlyhigh — the commissioners, appreciating the self-sacrificing
spirit which governed the damsel — were not disposed to
be exacting. There were some of the damsels of much and decided
growth — some were distinguished more by size than sweetness:
others again might—though they modestly forebore to do so—this
is the one failing of the sex — boast of their ripe antiquity; none
of them were remarkable for their beauty, but as all parties
agreed to evade this topic — for reasons no doubt good enough
in those days — we will not make it a subject of discussion in
ours. There was one only, among two score, about whom the
commissioners came to a dead pause — an absolute halt — and
finally to a grave renewal of their deliberations.

“The party thus in danger of rejection, was comely enough to
the eye, according to the standards adopted in the general recognition
of applicants. She was fair enough, and strong
enough, and there could be no doubt that she was quite old
enough, but there was not quite enough of her.

“She was minus a leg!

“Was this a disqualification or not? That was the difficult
question. When first presenting herself, it was observed that
she had advanced a foot. The foot was a good one — a foot of
size and character, and the leg which accompanied it, and of
which more was exhibited than was absolutely necessary to the
examination, was admitted to be an unobjectionable leg. But
somehow, one of the commissioners begged leave to see the other.
This literally occasioned a halt. In place of the required member,
she thrust forward a stick of English oak, which might have
served to splice the bowsprit of a Baltimore clipper.

“There was a sensation — a decided sensation. The commissioners
were taken all aback. They hemmed and hawed. A
consideration of the peculiar case was necessary.

“`My good woman,' quoth one of the commissioners, who
served as spokesman. `You have but one leg.'

“`You see, your honor. But it's sure I shall be less apt to run
away from the guid man.'

“`True; but whether that consideration will be sufficient to
reconcile him to the deficiency.'

“`Why not?' answered the fair suitor, `seeing that I am a
woman for all that.'

“`But you are not a perfect woman.'

“`Will your honor be so good as to mention if you ever did
meet with a perfect woman?'

“This was a poser. The commissioners were men of experience.
They had seen something of the world. They were
all women's men. The woman was too much for them. They
went again into consultation. The question was a serious one.
Could a woman be a complete woman — a perfect one was not
now the question — who had but a single leg? The subject of
discussion was reduced to this: what are the requisites of a wife
in Virginia? The result was, that they resolved to let the
woman go, and take her chance. They could not resist a will
so determined. They were naturally dubious whether any of
the sturdy adventurers in the realm of Powhatan would be altogether
willing to splice with a lame damsel not particularly
charming, or attractive in any respect: but women for such an
expedition were not in excess. The demand from James river
for wives was exceedingly urgent; the woman's frankness pleased

the commissioners, and her confidence of success finally encouraged
them with a similar hope on her behalf. They gave her
the necessary funds and certificate, partially persuaded that —
And the cripple went on her way swimmingly.”

“And the event?”

“Justified the faith of the legless damsel in the bounty of
Providence. Very great was the rejoicing in James river, when
the stout vessel wearing English colors was seen pressing up
the stream. They knew what they had to expect, and each
was eager for his prize. The stout yeomanry of Jamestown
turned out en masse, each in his best costume and behavior; and
as each had yet to make his choice, and as a wife is always,
more or less, the subject of some choice, each was anxious to
get on board the ship in advance of his comrades. Never was
there such a scramble. Wives rose in demand and value; and
but little time was consumed in seeing the parties paired, and,
two by two, returning from the vessel to the shore. How
proudly they departed — our brave adventurers, each with his
pretty commodity tucked under his arm! The supply fell
short of the demand. There were several who retired with sad
hearts, and lonely as they came. All were snatched up except
our lame girl; but she was not the person to despair. She put
on her sweetest smiles, as the unsupplied seekers circled about
her. They had no objection to her face. Her smiles were sufficiently
attractive; but that leg of English oak, which she in
vain strove to pucker up under her petticoats. The truth had
leaked out; and it was no go. Though grievously in want of
the furniture so necessary to a warm household, it was rather
too much to require our well-shaped and dashing Virginians to
couple with a damsel of but one leg; and after circling her with
wobegone visages, half-doubting what to do, they at length disappeared,
one by one, resolved to await a new ship, and a bride
of adequate members. The prospect for our lame duck became
rather unpromising; but Fortune, amid all her blindnesses and
caprices, is usually governed by a certain sense of propriety and
fitness. It so happened that there was a cobbler in the colony,
whose trade had been chosen with reference to the painful fact

that he had no leg at all. He, poor fellow, needing a wife as
much as any of the rest, had but little hope of having his wants
supplied by the present consignment. It was doubtful whether
he could have ventured to hope under any circumstances —
still more absurd to hope when the supply was small, the seekers
many, and all in the market before himself. And when he
saw those returning who had failed to secure companions, he
naturally gave up all notion, if he had ever dared to entertain
any, of gratifying his domestic ambition. But as these disappointed
adventurers crossed him on their return, and saw the
wistful eyes which he cast upon the vessel, they bade him derisively
go and seek his fortune.

“`Now's your chance, old fellow!' He soon gathered the
intelligence, and at first his soul revolted at the idea of coupling
with a lame woman.

“`A woman,' said he to himself, `gains enough when she gets
a husband. She ought to be finished at the least. Nothing
should be wanting.'

“But a moment's reflection made him more indulgent. He
seized his crutches and made toward the vessel. Then he bethought
himself again and made toward his cabin. But the
tempter prevailed, and he hobbled slowly forward. With help
he was at length brought into the vessel and the presence of
the waiting spinster.

“She had been long enough on the anxious benches. They
had been a sort of torture to her patience as well as her hope.

“`Why,' said he — as if only now apprized of her deficiency —
you've got but one leg.'

“`And you've got none,' she answered pertly.

“This threw him into a cold sweat. He now feared that he
should lose his prize. `What of that?' said he — `better a lame
donkey than no horse. Is it a match? I'm for you.'

“It was now her time to demur. She walked all round him,
he wheeling about the while with the utmost possible effort, to
show how agile he could be, legless or not. The man was good-looking
enough, minus his pins; and after a painful pause — to
one of the parties at least — she gave him her hand.

“The cobbler's rapture was complete. A chair was slung
down the ship's side. Scarcely had this been done when

one of the former seekers reappeared. He was now willing to
take the lame damsel; but our cobbler suffered no time for deliberation.
He did not dare exercise any foolish generosity in
leaving it to her to choose between the two.

“His choler was roused. It was his betrothed to whom the
wooer came, and, with a tremendous flourish of one of his
crutches, our cripple made at the intruder. This demonstration
was sufficient. He was allowed to retain his prize. The candidate
hurried off, cooling his thirst with whatever philosophy
he could muster. When the bridal took place, many were the
jests at the expense of our cripple couple. Even the priest
who united them was not unwilling to share in the humor of the
scene, making puns upon the occasion, such as have been cheapened
somewhat by a too frequent circulation.

“`I know not, good people,' he said, `whether you can properly
contract marriage, seeing that you both lack sufficient
understanding.'

“`No man should marry with a woman,' said one of the spectators,
`who teaches the utter uselessness of his own vocation.'

“`And why they should be married under a Christian dispensation,
I can not see,' was the comment of a third, `seeing
that neither of them are prepared to give proper heed to their
soles.'

“`It will be a marriage to bind,' said a fourth, `seeing that
neither can well run away from the other.'

“`She won't trouble him long,' said he who had come a
moment too late, — `she has already one foot in the grave.'

“The crutch of the cripple was again uplifted.

“`Parson,' said he, `make us fast, please, as soon as possible.
I reckon, if there's but one leg between us, there's no law
agin our children having a full complement.'

“Whereat the betrothed blushed prettily, and the ceremony
proceeded.”

Our companion's narrative might be all true, for what we
know. Its elements were all probable enough. But the story
rather whet than pacified the appetite; other legends were
called for, and the following legend of Venice, founded also on
history, succeeded to that of the Virginian.

THE BRIDE OF FATE.

1. CHAPTER I.

It was a glad day in Venice. The eve of the Feast of the
Purification had arrived, and all those maidens of the Republic,
whose names had been written in the “Book of Gold,” were
assembled with their parents, their friends and lovers — a beautiful
and joyous crowd — repairing, in the gondolas provided by
the Republic, to the church of San Pietro di Castella, at Olivolo,
which was the residence of the patriarch. This place was on the
extreme verge of the city, a beautiful and isolated spot, its precincts
almost without inhabitants, a ghostly and small priesthood
excepted, whose grave habits and taciturn seclusion seemed to
lend an additional aspect of solitude to the neighborhood. It
was, indeed, a solitary and sad-seeming region, which to the
thoughtless and unmeditative, might be absolutely gloomy. But
it was not the less lovely as a place suited equally for the picturesque
and the thoughtful; and, just now, it was very far from
gloomy or solitary. The event which was in hand was decreed
to enliven it in especial degree, and in its consequences, to impress
its characteristics on the memory for long generations after.
It was the day of St. Mary's Eve — a day set aside from immemorial
time for a great and peculiar festival. All, accordingly,
was life and joy in the sea republic. The marriages of a goodly
company of the high-born, the young and the beautiful, were to
be celebrated on this occasion, and in public, according to the
custom. Headed by the doge himself, Pietro Candiano, the
city sent forth its thousands. The ornamented gondolas plied
busily from an derly hour in the morning, from the city to Olivolo;
and there, amidst music and merry gratulations of friends
and kindred, the lovers disembarked. They were all clad in
their richest array. Silks, which caught their colors from the
rainbow, and jewels that had inherited, even in their caverns,
their beauties from the sun and stars, met the eye in all directions.
Wealth had put on all its riches, and beauty, always
modest, was not satisfied with her intrinsic loveliness. All that
could delight the eye, in personal decorations and nuptial ornaments,
was displayed to the eager gaze of curiosity, and, for a

moment, the treasures of the city were transplanted to the solitude
and waste.

But gorgeous and grand as was the spectacle, and joyous as
was the crowd, there were some at the festival, some young,
throbbing hearts, who, though deeply interested in its proceedings,
felt anything but gladness. While most of the betrothed
thrilled only with rapturous anticipations that might have been
counted in the strong pulsations that made the bosom heave rapidly
beneath the close pressure of the virgin zone, there were
yet others, who felt only that sad sinking of the heart which declares
nothing but its hopelessness and desolation. There were
victims to be sacrificed as well as virgins to be made happy, and
girdled in by thousands of the brave and goodly — by golden
images and flaunting banners, and speaking symbols — by music
and by smiles — there were more hearts than one that longed to
escape from all, to fly away to some far solitude, where the
voices of such a joy as was now present could vex the defrauded
soul no more. As the fair procession moved onward and up
through the gorgeous avenues of the cathedral to the altar-place,
where stood the venerable patriarch in waiting for their coming,
in order to begin the solemn but grateful rites, you might have
marked, in the crowding groups, the face of one meek damsel,
which declared a heart very far removed from hope or joyful
expectation. Is that tearful eye — is that pallid cheek — that
lip, now so tremulously convulsed — are these proper to one
going to a bridal, and that her own? Where is her anticipated
joy? It is not in that despairing vacancy of face — not in that
feeble, faltering, almost fainting footstep — not, certainly, in anything
that we behold about the maiden, unless we seek it in the
rich and flaming jewels with which she is decorated and almost
laden down; and these no more declare for her emotions than
the roses which encircle the neck of the white lamb, as it is led
to the altar and the priest. The fate of the two is not unlike,
and so also is their character. Francesca Ziani is decreed for a
sacrifice. She was one of those sweet and winning, but feeble
spirits, which know how to submit only. She has no powers of
resistance. She knows that she is a victim; she feels that her
heart has been wronged even to the death, by the duty to which
it is now commanded; she feels that it is thus made the cruel

but unwilling instrument for doing a mortal wrong to the heart
of another; but she lacks the courage to refuse, to resist, to die
rather than submit. Her nature only teaches her submission;
and this is the language of the wo-begone, despairing glance,
but one which she bestows, in passing up the aisle, upon one
who stands beside a column, close to her progress, in whose
countenance she perceives a fearful struggle, marking equally
his indignation and his grief.

Giovanni Gradenigo was one of the noblest cavaliers of Venice
— but nobleness, as we know, is not always, perhaps not often,
the credential in behalf of him who seeks a maiden from her parents.
He certainly was not the choice of Francesca's sire. The
poor girl was doomed to the embraces of one Ulric Barberigo, a
man totally destitute of all nobility, that alone excepted which
belonged to wealth. This shone in the eyes of Francesca's
parents, but failed utterly to attract her own. She saw, through
the heart's simple, unsophisticated medium, the person of Giovanni
Gradenigo only. Her sighs were given to him, her loathings to
the other. Though meek and finally submissive, she did not
yield without a remonstrance, without mingled tears and entreaties,
which were found unavailing. The ally of a young damsel
is naturally her mother, and when she fails her, her best human
hope is lost. Alas! for the poor Francesca! It was her mother's
weakness, blinded by the wealth of Ulric Barberigo, that
rendered the father's will so stubborn. It was the erring mother
that wilfully beheld her daughter led to the sacrifice, giving no
heed to the heart which was breaking, even beneath its heavy
weight of jewels. How completely that mournful and desponding,
that entreating and appealing glance to her indignant lover,
told her wretched history. There he stood, stern as well as sad,
leaning, as if for support, upon the arm of his kinsman, Nicolo
Malapieri. Hopeless, helpless, and in utter despair, he thus lingered,
as if under a strange and fearful fascination, watching
the progress of the proceedings which were striking fatally,
with every movement, upon the sources of his own hope and
happiness. His resolution rose with his desperation, and he suddenly
shook himself free from his friend.

“I will not bear this, Nicolo,” he exclaimed, “I must not suffer
it without another effort, though it be the last.”

“What would you do, Giovanni,” demanded his kinsman,
grasping him by the wrist as he spoke, and arresting his movement.

“Shall I see her thus sacrificed — delivered to misery and the
grave! Never! they shall not so lord it over true affections to
their loss and mine. Francesca was mine — is mine — even now,
in the very sight of Heaven. How often hath she vowed it!
Her glance avows it now. My lips shall as boldly declare it
again; and as Heaven has heard our vows, the church shall hear
them. The patriarch shall hear. Hearts must not be wronged
— Heaven must not thus be defrauded. That selfish, vain
woman, her mother — that mercenary monster, miscalled her
father — have no better rights than mine — none half so good.
They shall hear me. Stand by me, Nicolo, while I speak!”

This was the language of a passion, which, however true, was
equally unmeasured and imprudent. The friend of the unhappy
lover would have held him back.

“It is all in vain, Giovanni! Think! my friend, you can do
nothing now. It is too late; nor is there any power to prevent
this consummation. Their names have been long since written
in the `Book of Gold,' and the doge himself may not alter the
destiny!”

“The Book of Gold!” exclaimed the other. “Ay, the `Bride
of Gold!' but we shall see!” And he again started forward.
His kinsman clung to him.

“Better that we leave this place, Giovanni. It was wrong
that you should come. Let us go. You will only commit some
folly to remain.”

“Ay! it is folly to be wronged, and to submit to it, I know!
folly to have felt and still to feel! folly, surely, to discover, and
to live after the discovery, that the very crown that made life
precious is lost to you for ever! What matter if I should commit
this folly! Well, indeed, if they who laugh at the fool,
taste none of the wrath that they provoke.”

“This is sheer madness, Giovanni.”

“Release me, Nicolo.”

The kinsman urged in vain. The dialogue, which was carried
on in under tones, now enforced by animated action, began to
attract attention. The procession was moving forward. The

deep anthem began to swell, and Giovanni, wrought to the highest
pitch of frenzy by the progress of events, and by the opposition
of Nicolo, now broke away from all restraint, and hurried
through the crowd. The circle, dense and deep, had already
gathered closely about the altar-place, to behold the ceremony.
The desperate youth made his way through it. The crowd
gave way at his approach, and under the decisive pressure of
his person. They knew his mournful history — for when does
the history of love's denial and defeat fail to find its way to the
world's curious hearing? Giovanni was beloved in Venice. Such
a history as his and Francesca's was sure to beget sympathy,
particularly with all those who could find no rich lovers for themselves
or daughters, such as Ulric Barberigo. The fate of the
youthful lovers drew all eyes upon the two. A tearful interest
in the event began to pervade the assembly, and Giovanni really
found no such difficulty as would have attended the efforts of
any other person to approach the sacred centre of the bridal
circle. He made his way directly for the spot where Francesca
stood. She felt his approach and presence by the most natural
instincts, though without ever daring to lift her eye to his person.
A more deadly paleness than ever came over her, and as she
heard the first sounds of his voice, she faltered and grasped a
column for support. The patriarch, startled by the sounds of
confusion, rose from the sacred cushions; and spread his hands
over the assembly for silence; but as yet he failed to conceive
the occasion for commotion. Meanwhile, the parents and relatives
of Francesca had gathered around her person, as if to guard
her from an enemy. Ulric Barberigo, the millionaire, put on the
aspect of a man whose word was law on 'change. He, too, had
his retainers, all looking daggers, at the intruder. Fortunately
for Giovanni, they were permitted to wear none at these peaceful
ceremonials. Their looks of wrath did not discourage the
approach of our lover. He did not seem, indeed, to see them,
but gently putting them by, he drew near to the scarcely conscious
maiden. He lifted the almost lifeless hand from her side,
and pressing it within both his own, a proceeding which her
mother vainly endeavored to prevent, he addressed the maiden
with all that impressiveness of tone which declares a stifled but
still present and passionate emotion in the heart. His words
were of a touching sorrow.

“And is it thus, my Francesca, that I must look upon thee
for the last time? Henceforth, are we to be dead to one another?
Is it thus that I am to hear that, forgetful of thy virgin
vows to Gradenigo, thou art here calling Heaven to witness that
thou givest thyself and affections to another?”

“Not willingly, O! not willingly, Giovanni, as I live! I have
not forgotten — alas! I can not forget — that I have once vowed
myself to thee. But I pray thee to forget, Giovanni. Forget
me and forgive — forgive!”

Oh! how mournfully was this response delivered. There was
a dead silence throughout the assembly; a silence which imposed
a similar restraint even upon the parents of the maiden, who had
shown a desire to arrest the speaker. They had appealed to
the patriarch; but the venerable man was wise enough to perceive
that this was the last open expression of a passion which
must have its utterance in some form, and if not this, must result
in greater mischief. His decision tacitly sanctioned the interview
as we have witnessed it. It was with increased faltering,
which to the bystanders seemed almost fainting, that the unhappy
Francesca thus responded to her lover. Her words were
little more than whispers, and his tones, though deep, were very
low and subdued, as if spoken while the teeth were shut. There
was that in the scene which brought forward the crowd in
breathless anxiety to hear, and the proud heart of the damsel's
mother revolted at an exhibition in which her position was by no
means a grateful one. She would have wrested, even by violence,
the hand of her daughter from the grasp of Giovanni; but
he retained it firmly, the maiden herself being scarcely conscious
that he did so. His eye was sternly fixed upon the mother, as he
drew Francesca toward himself. His words followed his looks: —

“Have you not enough triumphed, lady, in thus bringing
about your cruel purpose, to the sacrifice of two hearts — your
child's no less than mine? Mine was nothing to you — but hers!
what had she done that you should trample upon hers? This
hast thou done! Thou hast triumphed! What wouldst thou
more? Must she be denied the mournful privilege of saying her
last parting with him to whom she vowed herself, ere she vows

herself to another! For shame, lady; this is a twofold and
needless tyranny!”

As he spoke, the more gentle and sympathizing spirits around
looked upon the stern mother with faces of the keenest rebuke
and indignation. Giovanni once more addressed himself to the
maiden.

“And if you do not love this man, my Francesca, why is it
that you so weakly yield to his solicitings? Why submit to this
sacrifice at any instance? Have they strength to subdue thee?
— has he the art to ensnare thee? — canst thou not declare thy
affections with a will? What magic is it that they employ
which is thus superior to that of love? — and what is thy right
— if heedless of the affections of thy heart — to demand the sacrifice
of mine? Thou hadst it in thy keeping, Francesca, as I
fondly fancied I had thine!”

“Thou hadst — thou hadst! —”

“Francesca, my child!” was the expostulating exclamation
of the mother; but it failed, except for a single instant, to arrest
the passionate answer of the maiden.

“Hear me, and pity, Giovanni, if you may not forgive!
Blame me for my infirmity — for the wretched weakness which
has brought me to this defeat of thy heart — this desolation of
mine — but do not doubt that I have loved thee — that I shall
ever—”

“Stay!” commanded the imperious father.

“What is it thou wouldst say, Francesca? Beware!” was
the stern language of the mother.

The poor girl shrunk back in trembling. The brief impulse
of courage which the address of her lover, and the evident sympathy
of the crowd, had imparted, was gone as suddenly as it
came. She had no more strength for the struggle; and as she
sunk back nerveless, and closed her eyes as if fainting under the
terrible glance of both her parents, Giovanni dropped her hand
from his grasp. It now lay lifeless at her side, and she was
sustained from falling by some of her sympathizing companions.
The eyes of the youth were bent upon her with a last look.

“It is all over, then,” he exclaimed. “Thy hope, unhappy
maiden, like mine, must perish because of thy weakness. Yet
there will be bitter memories for this,” he exclaimed — and his

eye now sought the mother — “bitter, bitter memories! Francesca,
farewell! Be happy if thou canst!”

She rushed toward him as he moved away, recovering all her
strength for this one effort. A single and broken sentence —
“Forgive me, O forgive!” — escaped her lips, as she sunk senseless
upon the floor. He would have raised her, but they did
not suffer him.

“Is this not enough, Giovanni?” said his friend, reproachfully.
“Seest thou not that thy presence but distracts her?”

“Thou art right, Nicolo; let us go. I am myself choking —
undo me this collar! — There! Let us depart.”

The organ rolled its anthem — a thousand voices joined in
the hymn to the Virgin, and as the sweet but painful sounds
rushed to the senses of the youth, he darted through the crowd,
closely followed by his friend. The music seemed to pursue
him with mockery. He rushed headlong from the temple, as
if seeking escape from some suffocating atmosphere in the pure
breezes of heaven, and hurried forward with confused and
purposeless footsteps. The moment of his disappearance was
marked by the partial recovery of Francesca. She unclosed her
eyes, raised her head, and looked wildly around her. Her lips
once more murmured his name.

“Giovanni!”

“He is gone,” was the sympathizing answer from more than
one lip in the assembly; and once more she relapsed into unconsciousness.

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.

3. CHAPTER III.

It will be necessary that we should go back in our narrative
but a single week before the occurrence of these events. Let
us penetrate the dim and lonesome abode on the confines of the
“Jewish Quarter,” but not within it, where the “Spanish Gipsy”
delivered her predictions. It is midnight, and still she sits over
her incantations. There are vessels of uncouth shape and unknown
character before her. Huge braziers lie convenient, on
one of which, amid a few coals, a feeble flame may be seen to
struggle. The atmosphere is impregnated with a strong but
not ungrateful perfume, and through its vapors objects appear
with some indistinctness. A circular plate of brass or copper —
it could not well be any more precious metal — rests beneath
the eye and finger of the woman. It is covered with strange
and mystic characters, which she seems busily to explore, as if
they had a real significance to her mind. She evidently united
the highest departments of her art with its humblest offices; and
possessed those nobler aspirations of the soul, which, during the
middle ages, elevated in considerable degree the professors of
necromancy. But our purpose is not now to determine her pretensions.

We have but to exhibit and to ascertain a small
specimen of her skill in the vulgar business of fortune-telling —
an art which will continue to be received among men, to a
greater or less extent, so long as they shall possess a hope
which they can not gratify, and feel a superstition which they
can not explain. Our gipsy expects a visiter. She hears his
footstep. The door opens at her bidding, and a stranger makes
his appearance. He is a tall and well-made man, of stern and
gloomy countenance, which is half concealed beneath the raised
foldings of his cloak. His beard, of enormous length, is seen to
stream down upon his breast; but his cheek is youthful, and his
eye is eagerly and anxiously bright. But for a certain repelling
something in his glance, he might be considered a very
handsome man — perhaps by many persons he was thought so.
He advanced with an air of dignity and power. His deportment
and manner — and, when he spoke, his voice — all seemed to
denote a person accustomed to command. The woman did not
look up as he approached: on the contrary, she seemed more
intent than ever in the examination of the strange characters before
her. But a curious spectator might have seen that a corner
of her eye, bright with an intelligence that looked more like cunning
than wisdom, was suffered to take in all of the face and person
of the visiter that his muffling costume permitted to be seen.

“Mother,” said the stranger, “I am here.”

“You say not who you are,” answered the woman.

“Nor shall say,” was the abrupt reply of the stranger.
“That, you said, was unnecessary to your art — to the solution
of the questions that I asked you.”

“Surely,” was the answer. “My art, that promises to tell
thee of the future, would be a sorry fraud could it not declare
the present — could it not say who thou art, as well as what
thou seekest.”

“Ha! and thou knowest!” exclaimed the other, his hand
suddenly feeling within the folds of his cloak as he spoke, as if
for a weapon, while his eye glared quickly around the apartment,
as if seeking for a secret enemy.

“Nay, fear nothing,” said the woman, calmly. “I care not
to know who thou art. It is not an object of my quest, otherwise
it would not long remain a secret to me.”

“It is well! mine is a name that must not be spoken among
the homes of Venice. It would make thee thyself to quail
couldst thou hear it spoken.”

“Perhaps! but mine is not the heart to quail at many things,
unless it be the absolute wrath of Heaven. What the violence
or the hate of man could do to this feeble frame, short of death,
it has already suffered. Thou knowest but little of human cruelty,
young man, though thy own deeds be cruel.”

“How knowest thou that my deeds are cruel?” was the
quick and passionate demand, while the form of the stranger
suddenly and threateningly advanced. The woman was unmoved.

“Saidst thou not that there was a name that might not be
spoken in the homes of Venice? Why should thy very name
make the hearts of Venice to quail unless for thy deeds of cruelty
and crime? But I see further. I see it in thine eyes that
thou art cruel. I hear it in thy voice that thou art criminal. I
know, even now, that thy soul is bent on deeds of violence and
blood; and the very quest that brings thee to me now is less
the quest of love than of that wild and selfish passion which so
frequently puts on its habit.”

“Ha! speak to me of that! This damsel, Francesca Ziani!
'Tis of her that I would have thee speak. Thou saidst that
she should be mine; yet lo! her name is written in the `Book
of Gold,' and she is allotted to this man of wealth, this Ulric
Barberigo.”

“She will never be the wife of Ulric Barberigo.”

“Thou saidst she should be mine.”

“Nay, I said not that.”

“Ha! — but thou liest!”

“No! Anger me not, young man! I am slower, much
slower to anger than thyself — slower than most of those who
still chafe within this mortal covering — yet am I mortal like
thyself, and not wholly free from such foolish passions as vex
mortality. Chafe me, and I will repulse thee with scorn. Annoy
me, and I close upon thee the book of fate, leaving thee
to the blind paths which thy passions have ever moved thee to
take.”

The stranger muttered something apologetically.

“Make me no excuses. I only ask thee to forbear and submit.
I said not that Francesca Ziani should be thine! I said
only that I beheld her in thy arms.”

“And what more do I ask!” was the exulting speech of the
stranger, his voice rising into a sort of outburst, which fully
declared the ruffian, and the cruel passions by which he was
governed.

“If that contents thee, well!” said the woman, coldly, her
eye perusing with a seeming calmness the brazen plate upon
which the strange characters were inscribed.

“That, then, thou promisest still?” demanded the stranger.

“Thou shalt see for thyself,” was the reply. Thus speaking
the woman slowly arose and brought forth a small chafing-dish,
also of brass or copper, not much larger than a common plate.
This she placed over the brazier, the flame of which she quickened
by a few smart puffs from a little bellows which lay beside
her. As the flame kindled, and the sharp, red jets rose like
tongues on either side of the plate, she poured into it something
like a gill of a thick, tenacious liquid, that looked like, and
might have been, honey. Above this she brooded for a while
with her eyes immediately over the vessel; and the keen ear
of the stranger, quickened by excited curiosity, could detect the
muttering of her lips; though the foreign syllables which she
employed were entirely beyond his comprehension. Suddenly,
a thick vapor went up from the dish. She withdrew it from the
brazier and laid it before her on the table. A few moments
sufficed to clear the surface of the vessel, the vapor arising and
hanging languidly above her head.

“Look now for thyself and see!” was her command to the
visiter; she herself not deigning a glance upon the vessel, seeming
thus to be quite sure of what it would present, or quite indifferent
to the result. The stranger needed no second summons.
He bent instantly over the vessel, and started back with undisguised
delight.

“It is she!” he exclaimed. “She droops! whose arm is it
that supports her — upon whose breast is it that she lies — who
bears her away in triumph?”

“Is it not thyself?” asked the woman, coldly.

“By Hercules, it is! She is mine! She is in my arms!

She is on my bosom! I have her in my galley! She speeds
with me to my home! I see it all, even as thou hast promised
me!”

“I promise thee nothing. I but show thee only what is
written.”

“And when and how shall this be effected?”

“How, I know not,” answered the woman; “this is withheld
from me. Fate shows what her work is, only as it appears when
done, but not the manner of the doing.”

“But when will this be?” was the question.

“It must be ere she marries with Ulric Barberigo, for him
she will never marry.”

“And it is appointed that he weds with her on the day of St.
Mary's Eve. That is but a week hence, and the ceremony
takes place—”

“At Olivolo.”

“Ha! at Olivolo!” and a bright gleam of intelligence passed
over the features of the stranger, from which his cloak had by
this time entirely fallen. The woman beheld the look, and a
slight smile, that seemed to denote scorn rather than any other
emotion, played for a moment over her shrivelled and sunken lips.

“Mother,” said the stranger, “must all these matters be left
to fate?”

“That is as thou wilt.”

“But the eye of a young woman may be won — her heart
may be touched — so that it shall be easy for fate to accomplish
her designs. I am young; am indifferently well-fashioned in
person, and have but little reason to be ashamed of the face
which God has given me. Beside, I have much skill in music,
and can sing to the guitar as fairly as most of the young men
of Venice. What if I were to find my way to the damsel —
what if I play and sing beneath her father's palace? I have
disguises, and am wont to practice in various garments: I can—”

The woman interrupted him.

“Thou mayst do as thou wilt. It is doubtless as indifferent
to the fates, what thou doest, as it will be to me. Thou hast
seen what I have shown — I can no more. I am not permitted
to counsel thee. I am but a voice; thou hast all that I can
give thee.”

The stranger lingered still, but the woman ceased to speak,
and betrayed by her manner that she desired his departure.
Thus seeing, he took a purse from his bosom and laid it before
her. She did not seem to notice the action, nor did she again
look up until he was gone. With the sound of his retreating
footsteps, she put aside the brazen volume of strange characters
which seemed her favorite study, and her lips slowly parted in
soliloquy:—

“Ay! thou exultest, fierce ruffian that thou art, in the assurance
that Fate yields herself to thy will! Thou shalt, indeed,
have the maiden in thy arms, but it shall profit thee nothing;
and that single triumph shall exact from thee the last penalties
which are sure to follow on the footsteps of a trade like thine.
Thou thinkest that I know thee not, as if thy shallow masking
could baffle eyes and art like mine; but I had not shown thee
thus much, were I not in possession of yet further knowledge —
did I not see that this lure was essential to embolden thee to thy
own final overthrow. Alas, that in serving the cause of innocence,
in saving the innocent from harm, we can not make it
safe in happiness. Poor Francesca! beloved of three, yet blest
with neither. Thou shalt be wedded, yet be no bride; shall
gain all that thy fond young heart craveth, yet gain nothing —
be spared the embraces of him thou loathest, yet rest in his
arms whom thou hast most need to fear; and shalt be denied,
even when most assured, the only embrace which might bring
thee blessing! Happy at least that thy sorrows shall not last
thee long — their very keenness and intensity being thy security
from the misery which holds through years like mine.”

Let us leave the woman of mystery — let us once more
change the scene. Now pass we to the pirate's domain at Istria,
a region over which, at the period of our narrative, the control
of Venice was feeble, exceedingly capricious, and subject to frequent
vicissitudes. At this particular time, the place was maintained
by the fiercest band of pirates that ever swept the
Moditerranean with their bloody prows.

4. CHAPTER IV.

It was midnight when the galley of the chief glided into the
harbor of Istria. The challenge of the sentinel was answered
from the vessel, and she took her place beside the shore, where
two other galleys were at anchor. Suddenly her sails descended
with a rattle; a voice hailed throughout the ship, was answered
from stem to stern, and a deep silence followed. The fierce
chief of the pirates, Pietro Barbaro — the fiercest, strongest,
wisest, yet youngest, of seven brothers, all devoted to the same
fearful employment — strode in silence to his cabin. Here,
throwing himself upon a couch, he prepared rather to rest his
limbs than to sleep. He had thoughts to keep him wakeful.
Wild hopes, and tenderer joys than his usual occupations offered,
were gleaming before his fancy. The light burned dimly in his
floating chamber, but the shapes of his imagination rose up before
his mind's eye not the less vividly because of the obscurity in
which he lay. Thus musing over expectations of most agreeable
and exciting aspect, he finally lapsed away in sleep.

He was suddenly aroused from slumber by a rude hand that
lay heavily on his shoulder.

“Who is it?” he asked of the intruder.

“Gamba,” was the answer.

“Thou, brother?”

“Ay,” continued the intruder, “and here are all of us.”

“Indeed! and wherefore come you? I would sleep — I am
weary. I must have rest.”

“Thou hast too much rest, Pietro,” said another of the brothers.
“It is that of which we complain — that of which we
would speak to thee now.”

“Ha! this is new language, brethren! Answer me — perhaps
I am not well awake — am I your captain, or not?”

“Thou art — the fact seems to be forgotten by no one but
thyself. Though the youngest of our mother's children, we
made thee our leader.”

“For what did ye this, my brothers, unless that I might command
ye?”

“For this, in truth, and this only, did we confer upon thee

this authority. Thou hadst shown thyself worthy to command—”

“Well!”

“Thy skill — thy courage — thy fortitude —”

“In brief, ye thought me best fitted to command ye?”

“Yes.”

“Then I command ye hence! Leave me, and let me rest!”

“Nay, brother, but this can not be,” was the reply of another
of the intruders. “We must speak with thee while the
night serves us, lest thou hear worse things with the morrow.
Thou art, indeed, our captain; chosen because of thy qualities
of service, to conduct and counsel us; but we chose thee not
that thou shouldst sleep! Thou wert chosen that our enterprises
might be active and might lead to frequent profit.”

“Has it not been so?” demanded the chief.

“For a season it was so, and there was no complaint of
thee.”

“Who now complains?”

“Thy people — all!”

“And can ye not answer them?”

“No! for we ourselves need an answer! We. too, complain.”

“Of what complain ye?”

“That our enterprises profit us nothing.”

“Do ye not go forth in the galleys? Lead ye not, each of
you, an armed galley? Why is it that your enterprises profit
ye nothing?”

“Because of the lack of our captain.”

“And ye can do nothing without me; and because ye are incapable,
I must have no leisure for myself!”

“Nay, something more than this, Pietro. Our enterprises
avail us nothing, since you command that we no longer trouble
the argosies of Venice. Venice has become thy favorite. Thou
shieldest her only, when it is her merchants only who should
give us spoil. This, brother, is thy true offence. For this we
complain of thee; for this thy people complain of thee. They
are impoverished by thy new-born love for Venice, and they are
angry with thee. Brother, their purpose is to depose thee.”

“Ha! and ye—”

“We are men as well as brethren. We cherish no such attachment

for Venice as that which seems to fill thy bosom.
When the question shall be taken in regard to thy office, our
voices shall be against thee, unless—”

There was a pause. It was broken by the chief.

“Well, speak out. What are your conditions?”

“Unless thou shalt consent to lead us on a great enterprise
against the Venetians. Hearken to us, Brother Pietro. Thou
knowest of the annual festival at Olivolo, when the marriage
takes place of all those maidens whose families are favorites of
the Signiory, and whose names are written in the `Book of Gold'
of the Republic.”

The eyes of the pirate chief involuntarily closed at the suggestion,
but his head nodded affirmatively. The speaker continued.

“It is now but a week when this festival takes place. On
this occasion assemble the great, the noble, and the wealthy of
the sea city. Thither they bring all that is gorgeous in their
apparel, all that is precious among their ornaments and decorations.
Nobility and wealth here strive together which shall
most gloriously display itself. Here, too, is the beauty of the
city — the virgins of Venice — the very choice among her flocks.
Could there be prize more fortunate? Could there be prize
more easy of attainment? The church of San Pietro di Castella
permits no armed men within its holy sanctuaries. There are
no apprehensions of peril; the people who gather to the rites
are wholly weaponless. They can offer no defence against our
assault; nor can this be foreseen. What place more lonely than
Olivolo? Thither shall we repair the day before the festival,
and shelter ourselves from scrutiny. At the moment when the
crowd is greatest, we will dart upon our prey. We lack women;
we desire wealth. Shall we fail in either, when we have in remembrance
the bold deeds of our ancient fathers, when they
looked with yearning on the fresh beauties of the Sabine virgins?
These Venetian beauties are our Sabines. Thou, too — if
the bruit of thy followers doth thee no injustice — thou, too, hast
been overcome by one of these. She will doubtless be present
at this festival. Make her thine, and fear not that each of thy
brethren will do justice to his tastes and thine own. Here, now,
thou hast all. Either thou agreest to that which thy people demand,

or the power departs from thy keeping. Fabio becomes
our leader!”

There was a pause. At length the pirate-chief addressed his
brethren.

“Ye have spoken! ye threaten, too! This power of which
ye speak, is precious in your eyes. I value it not a zecchino;
and wert thou to depose me to-morrow, I should be the master
of ye in another month, did it please me to command a people
so capricious. But think not, though I speak to ye in this fashion,
that I deny your demand. I but speak thus to show ye that
I fear ye not. I will do as ye desire; but did not your own
wishes square evenly with mine own, I should bide the issue of
this struggle, though it were with knife to knife.”

“It matters not how thou feelest, or what moveth thee, Pietro,
so that thou dost as we demand. Thou wilt lead us to this
spoil?”

“I will.”

“It is enough. It will prove to thy people that they are
still the masters of the Lagune — that they are not sold to
Venice.”

“Leave me now.”

The brethren took their departure. When they had gone,
the chief spoke in brief soliloquy, thus:—

“Verily, there is the hand of fate in this. Methinks I see the
history once more, even as I beheld it in the magic liquor of the
Spanish Gipsy. Why thought I not of this before, dreaming
vainly like an idiot boy, as much in love with his music as himself,
who hopes by the tinkle of his guitar to win his beauty
from the palace of her noble sire, to the obscure retreats of his
gondola! These brethren shall not vex me. They are but the
creatures of my fate!”

5. CHAPTER V.

Let us now return to Olivolo, to the altar-place of the church
of San Pietro di Castella, and resume the progress of that
strangely-mingled ceremonial — mixed sunshine and sadness —
which was broken by the passionate conduct of Giovanni Gradenigo.
We left the poor, crushed Francesca, in a state of unconsciousness,

in the arms of her sympathizing kindred. For a
brief space the impression was a painful one upon the hearts of
the vast assembly; but as the deep organ rolled its ascending
anthems, the emotion subsided. The people had assembled for
pleasure and an agreeable spectacle; and though sympathizing,
for a moment, with the pathetic fortunes of the sundered lovers,
quite as earnestly as it is possible for mere lookers-on to do, they
were not to be disappointed in the objects for which they came.
The various shows of the assemblage — the dresses, the jewels,
the dignitaries, and the beauties — were quite enough to divert
the feelings of a populace, at all times notorious for its levities,
from a scene which, however impressive at first, was becoming
a little tedious. Sympathies are very good and proper things;
but the world seldom suffers them to occupy too much of its
time. Our Venetians did not pretend to be any more humane
than the rest of the great family; and the moment that Francesca
had fainted, and Giovanni had disappeared, the multitude
began to express their impatience of any further delay by all the
means in their possession. There was no longer a motive to resist
their desires, and simply reserving the fate of the poor Francesca
to the last, or until she should sufficiently recover to be
fully conscious of the sacrifice which she was about to make, the
ceremonies were begun. There was a political part to be played
by the doge, in which the people took particular interest; and
to behold which, indeed, was the strongest reason of their impatience.
The government of Venice, as was remarked by quaint
and witty James Howell, was a compound thing, mixed of all
kinds of governments, and might be said to be composed of “a
grain of monarchy, a dose of democracy, and a dram, if not an
ounce of optimacy.” It was in regard to this dose of democracy
that the government annually assigned marriage portions to
twelve young maidens, selected from the great body of the people,
of those not sufficiently opulent to secure husbands, or find
the adequate means for marriage, without this help. To bestow
these maidens upon their lovers, and with them the portions
allotted by the state, constituted the first, and in the eyes of the
masses, the most agreeable part of the spectacle. The doge,
on this occasion, who was the thrice-renowned Pietro Candiano,
“did his spiriting gently,” and in a highly edifying manner.
The bishop bestowed his blessings, and confirmed by the religious,
the civil rites, which allied the chosen couples. To these
succeeded the voluntary parties, if we may thus presume upon a
distinction between the two classes, which we are yet not sure
that we have a right to make. The high-born and the wealthy,
couple after couple, now approached the altar, to receive the
final benediction which committed them to hopes of happiness
which it is not in the power of any priesthood to compel. No
doubt there was a great deal of hope among the parties, and
we have certainly no reason to suppose that happiness did not
follow in every instance.

But there is poor Francesca Ziani. It is now her turn. Her
cruel parents remain unsubdued and unsoftened by her deep and
touching sorrows. She is made to rise, to totter forward to the
altar, scarcely conscious of anything, except, perhaps, that the
worthless, but wealthy, Ulric Barberigo is at her side. Once
more the mournful spectacle restores to the spectators all their
better feelings. They perceive, they feel the cruelty of that sacrifice
to which her kindred are insensible. In vain do they
murmur “shame!” In vain does she turn her vacant, wild, but
still expressive eyes, expressive because of their very soulless
vacancy, to that stern, ambitious mother, whose bosom no longer
responds to her child with the true maternal feeling. Hopeless
of help from that quarter, she lifts her eyes to heaven, and, no
longer listening to the words of the holy man, she surrenders
herself only to despair.

Is it Heaven that hearkens to her prayer? Is it the benevolent
office of an angel that bursts the doors of the church at the
very moment when she is called upon to yield that response
which dooms her to misery for ever? To her ears, the thunders
which now shake the church were the fruits of Heaven's benignant
interposition. The shrieks of women on every hand — the
oaths and shouts of fierce and insolent authority — the clamors of
men — the struggles and cries of those who seek safety in flight,
or entreat for mercy — suggest no other idea to the wretched Francesca,
than that she is saved from the embraces of Ulric Barberigo.
She is only conscious that, heedless of her, and of the
entreaties of her mother, he is the first to endeavor selfishly to
save himself by flight. But her escape from Barberigo is only

the prelude to other embraces. She knows not, unhappy child,
that she is an object of desire to another, until she finds herself
lifted in the grasp of Pietro Barbaro, the terrible chief of the Istriote
pirates. He and his brothers have kept their pledges to
one another, and they have been successful in their prey. Their
fierce followers have subdued to submission the struggles of a
weaponless multitude, who, with horror and consternation, behold
the loveliest of their virgins, the just wedded among them, borne
away upon the shoulders of the pirates to their warlike galleys.
Those who resist them perish. Resistance was hopeless. The
fainting and shrieking women, like the Sabine damsels, are hurried
from the sight of their kinsmen and their lovers, and the
Istriote galleys are about to depart with their precious freight.
Pietro Barbaro, the chief, stands with one foot upon his vessel's
side and the other on the shore. Still insensible, the lovely
Francesca lies upon his breast. At this moment the skirt of his
cloak is plucked by a bold hand. He turns to meet the glance
of the Spanish Gipsy. The old woman leered on him with
eyes that seemed to mock his triumph, even while she appealed
to it.

“Is it not even as I told thee — as I showed thee?” was her
demand.

“It is!” exclaimed the pirate-chief, as he flung her a purse
of gold. “Thou art a true prophetess. Fate has done her
work!”

He was gone; his galley was already on the deep, and he
himself might now be seen kneeling upon the deck of the vessel,
bending over his precious conquest, and striving to bring
back the life into her cheeks.

“Ay, indeed!” muttered the Spanish Gipsy, “thou hast had
her in thy arms, but think not, reckless robber that thou art,
that fate has done its work. The work is but begun. Fate has
kept its word to thee; it is thy weak sense that fancied she had
nothing more to say or do!”

Even as she spoke these words, the galleys of Giovanni
Gradenigo were standing for the Lagune of Caorlo. He had
succeeded in collecting a gallant band of cavaliers who tacitly
yielded him the command. The excitement of action had
served, in some measure, to relieve the distress under which he

suffered. He was no longer the lover, but the man; nor the
man merely, but the leader of men. Giovanni was endowed for
this by nature. His valor was known. It had been tried upon
the Turk. Now that he was persuaded by the Spanish Gipsy,
whom all believed and feared, that a nameless and terrible danger
overhung his beloved, which was to be met and baffled only
by the course he was pursuing, his whole person seemed to be
informed by a new spirit. The youth, his companions, wondered
to behold the change. There was no longer a dreaminess and
doubt about his words and movements, but all was prompt, energetic,
and directly to the purpose. Giovanni was now the
confident and strong man. Enough for him that there was danger.
Of this he no longer entertained a fear. Whether the
danger that was supposed to threaten Francesca was still suggestive
of a hope — as the prediction of the Spanish Gipsy
might well warrant — may very well be questioned. It was in
the very desperation of his hope, that his energies became at
once equally well-ordered and intense. He prompted to their
utmost the energies of others. He impelled all his agencies to
their best exertions. Oar and sail were busy without intermission,
and soon the efforts of the pursuers were rewarded. A gondola,
bearing a single man, drifted along their path. He was a
fugitive from Olivolo, who gave them the first definite idea of
the foray of the pirates. His tidings, rendered imperfect by his
terrors, were still enough to goad the pursuers to new exertions.
Fortune favored the pursuit. In their haste the pirate galleys
had become entangled in the lagune. The keen eye of Giovanni
was the first to discover them. First one bark, and then
another, hove in sight, and soon the whole piratical fleet were
made out, as they urged their embarrassed progress through the
intricacies of the shallow waters.

“Courage, bold hearts!” cried Giovanni to his people; “they
are ours! We shall soon be upon them. They can not now
escape us!”

The eye of the youthful leader brightened with the expectation
of the struggle. His exulting, eager voice declared the
strength and confidence of his soul, and cheered the souls of all
around him. The sturdy oarsmen “gave way” with renewed
efforts. The knights prepared their weapons for the conflict.

Giovanni signalled the other galleys by which his own was followed.

“I am for the red flag of Pietro Barbaro himself. I know his
banner. Let your galleys grapple with the rest. Cross their
path — prevent their flight, and bear down upon the strongest.
Do your parts, and fear not but we shall do ours.”

With these brief instructions, our captain led the way with the
Venetian galleys. The conflict was at hand. It came. They
drew nigh and hailed the enemy. The parley was a brief one.
The pirates could hope no mercy, and they asked none. But
few words, accordingly, were exchanged between the parties,
and these were not words of peace.

“Yield thee to the mercy of St. Mark!” was the stern summons
of Giovanni, to the pirate-chief.

“St. Mark's mercy has too many teeth!” was the scornful
reply of the pirate. “The worthy saint must strike well before
Barbaro of Istria sues to him for mercy.”

With the answer the galleys grappled. The Venetians leaped
on board of the pirates, with a fury that was little short of madness.
Their wrath was terrible. Under the guidance of the fierce
Giovanni, they smote with an unforgiving vengeance. It was
in vain that the Istriotes fought as they had been long accustomed.
It needed something more than customary valor to meet
the fury of their assailants. All of them perished. Mercy now
was neither asked nor given. Nor, as it seemed, did the pirates
care to live, when they beheld the fall of their fearful leader.
He had crossed weapons with Giovanni Gradenigo, in whom he
found his fate. Twice, thrice, the sword of the latter drove
through the breast of the pirate. Little did his conqueror conjecture
the import of the few words which the dying chief gasped
forth at his feet, his glazed eyes striving to pierce the deck, as
if seeking some one within.

“I have, indeed, had thee in my arms, but—”

There was no more — death finished the sentence! The victory
was complete, but Giovanni was wounded. Pietro Barbaro
was a fearful enemy. He was conquered, it is true, but he
had made his mark upon his conqueror. He had bitten deep
before he fell.

The victors returned with their spoil. They brought back the

captured brides in triumph. That same evening preparations
were made to conclude the bridal ceremonies which the morning
had seen so fearfully arrested. With a single exception, the
original distribution of the “brides” was persevered in. That
exception, as we may well suppose, was Francesca Ziani. It
was no longer possible for her unnatural parents to withstand
the popular sentiment. The doge himself, Pietro Candiano,
was particularly active in persuading the reluctant mother to
submit to what was so evidently the will of destiny. But for
the discreditable baseness and cowardice of Ulric Barberigo, it is
probable she never would have yielded. But his imbecility and
unmanly terror in the moment of danger, had been too conspicuous.
Even his enormous wealth could not save him from the
shame that followed; and, however unwillingly, the parents of
Francesca consented that she should become the bride of Giovanni,
as the only proper reward for the gallantry which had
saved her, and so many more, from shame.

But where was Giovanni? His friends have been despatched
for him; why comes he not? The maid, now happy beyond
her hope, awaits him at the altar. And still he comes not. Let
us go back to the scene of action in the moment of his victory over
the pirate-chief. Barbaro lies before him in the agonies of death.
His sword it is which has sent the much-dreaded outlaw to his
last account. But he himself is wounded — wounded severely,
but not mortally, by the man whom he has slain. At this moment
he received a blow from the axe of one of the brothers of
Barbaro. He had strength left barely to behold and to shout
his victory, when he sank fainting upon the deck of the pirate
vessel. His further care devolved upon his friend, Nicolo, who
had followed his footsteps closely through all the paths of danger.
In a state of stupor he lies upon the couch of Nicolo, when
the aged prophetess, the “Spanish Gipsy,” appeared beside his
bed.

“He is called,” she said. “The doge demands his presence.
They will bestow upon him his bride, Francesca Ziani. You
must bear him thither.”

The surgeon shook his head.

“It may arouse him,” said Nicolo. “We can bear him thither
on a litter, so that he shall feel no pain.”

“It were something to wake him from this apathy,” mused
the surgeon. “Be it as thou wilt.”

Thus, grievously wounded, was the noble Giovanni borne into
the midst of the assembly, for each member of which he had
suffered and done so much. The soft music which played
around, awakened him. His eyes unclosed to discover the
lovely Francesca, tearful, but hopeful, bending fondly over him.
She declared herself his. The voice of the doge confirmed the
assurance; and the eyes of the dying man brightened into the
life of a new and delightful consciousness. Eagerly he spoke;
his voice was but a whisper.

“Make it so, I pray thee, that I may live!”

The priest drew nigh with the sacred unction. The marriage
service was performed, and the hands of the two were
clasped in one.

“Said I not?” demanded an aged woman, who approached
the moment after the ceremonial, and whose face was beheld by
none but him whom she addressed. “She is thine!”

The youth smiled, but made no answer. His hand drew that
of Francesca closer. She stooped to his kiss, and whispered
him, but he heard her not. With the consciousness of the
sweet treasure that he had won after such sad denial, the sense
grew conscious no longer — the lips of the youth were sealed
for ever. The young Giovanni, the bravest of the Venetian
youth, lay lifeless in the embrace of the scarcely more living
Francesca. It was a sad day, after all, in Venice, since its triumph
was followed by so great a loss; but the damsels of the
ocean city still declare that the lovers were much more blest in
this fortune, than had they survived for the embrace of others
less beloved.

“Have I not read something like this story in a touching and
romantic episode given in the `Italy' of Rogers?” asked Salina
Burroughs.

“Yes! Rogers got it from the history. It is one of those
incidents which enrich and enliven for romance the early progress
of most states and nations that ever arrived at character
and civilization. Of course, like the famous legends of infant
Rome, it undergoes the artist touch of successive historians all

of whom, in early periods, exercised in some degree the privileges
of the artist, if not the romancer.”

“The event occurs in the first periods of Venetian story,
somewhere about A. D. 932, the reigning doge being Candiano
the Second. It is good material for the dramatist. I should
commend it to Mr. Boker, as the subject of an operatic melodrama.
In the hands of our young friend Marvel, it could be
wrought into a very pretty and delicate and dreamy work of
sentimental fiction.”