"That
father confessor of hers hath much to answer for. Keep the little one
well out of the way of their craft--dost thou hear? He is to be trained
for Venice, after the ways of the Ca' Giustiniani. And Marcantonio--who
knows?"
He had drifted into his favorite reverie, and wandered abstractedly out
upon the balcony looking longingly toward the rose-colored palace where
his every ambition centred; but he felt the glittering, jeweled eyes of
the patron saint of Venice glare upon him mockingly from his vantage
point upon the column, while the very twist of the out-thrust tongue
insinuated a personal message of malice and defeat.
XXVIII
Venice was flooded with moonlight. The long line of palaces down the
Canal Grande shone back from the breast of the water, starred with
lights, repeated again and again in the rippling surface.
A ceaseless melody filled the air, braided of sounds familiar only to
this magic city--echoes of laughter from balconies high in air, silvery
tintinnabulations falling like drippings of water from speeding oars,
franker bursts of merriment from the open windows of the palaces, low
murmured tones of lovers in content from gliding gondolas, hoarse shouts
of quick imperious orders from gondoliers to offending gondoliers, as
they passed--apostrophes to liquid names of guardian saints, too
melodious for denunciations, hurled back with triple expletives and
forgotten the next moment in friendly parsiflage; here and there a
strain of ordered music, in serenade, from a group of friendly gondolas
swaying only with the tranquil movement of the water; or the mysterious
tone of a violin, uttering a soul prayer meant for some single listener,
which yet steals tremblingly forth upon the night air--more passionate,
more beautiful and true than that other human voice which breaks the
quiet of a neighboring calle with some monotonous love song of the
people.
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