SUNSET ON THE GRAND CANAL.
Venice, and sunset on the Grand Canal!
Nowhere else in all the world is there such a sight. For two miles this
magnificent waterway; the main thoroughfare of the most wonderful city
in the world, winds in graceful curves, with red-tiled, creamy white
palaces on either hand. At all times it is a source of wonder and
delight to the visitor, but at sunset and in the gathering purple
twilight it is the most entrancing.
So thought Dick Merriwell, as he lay amid the piled-up cushions of a
gondola that was propelled by a gracefully swaying, picturesquely
dressed gondolier, one beautiful evening.
Brad Buckhart and Professor Gunn were in the gondola with Dick, and
they, also, were enchanted and enraptured with the scene.
The mellow rays of the sinking sun touched the shimmering surface of the
water, shone on the windows of the palaces, gleamed on the hanging
balconies of marble, and made the Bridge of the Rialto seem like an
ivory arch against the amber-turquoise sky.
There were many other gondolas moving silently along here, there,
everywhere. On this great thoroughfare there was no rumble and roar of
traffic. It was a street of soft silence, as Venice is the City of
Silence.
“In a short time, boys,” said the old professor, in a modulated voice,
that seemed softened by the influence of his surroundings, “you shall
see Venice at her best, for the moon will rise round and full. When you
have seen Venice by moonlight, you may truthfully say you have beheld
the most beautiful spectacle this world can show you.”
“She ain’t so almighty bad by sunlight,” observed Buckhart.
“Ah, but time has worked its ravages upon her,” sighed Zenas sadly.
“Once even the dazzling sun of midday could show no flaw in her beauty,
but now it reveals the fact that, although she is still charming, her
face is pathetically wrinkled. Ah! those splendid days of old—those days
of her magnificence and grandeur—gone, gone forever!”
In truth, Zenas was profoundly moved as he thought of the past greatness
and present state of this City of the Sea.
Still Dick remained silent. He was watching the sunset. Between him and
the western sky seemed falling a shower of powdered gold, and yet this
wonderful, golden light was perfectly transparent. Beneath the balconies
and in the narrower canals the shadows were growing deeper. Just then
Dick thought that, no matter what disaster, what suffering, what sorrow
might come to him in life, just to be there in Venice that night at
sunset was joy and pleasure and reward enough to overbalance all else.
“Pard, are you dreaming?”
Dick turned his eyes toward the loyal Texan without moving his head.
“Yes, yes—dreaming,” he murmured.
“Of what?”
“Like the professor, of the old days—of the founding of this wonderful
city by a mere handful of refugees, who fled before the devastating,
barbarian army of Attila, well named the ‘Scourge of God.’ How little
could they have dreamed—those terror-stricken refugees—of the wonderful
future of this city of a hundred islands! I am dreaming of Venice at the
height of her glory, of the power of the Doges, of the senators in their
splendid robes, of battles and conquests, of riches and splendor, of
pompous pageants, of Ascension Day, when amid the roar of cannon, the
shouts of the people, and the throb of music, the Doge in his barge of
gold flung a golden ring into the blue waves, announcing the wedding of
Venice and the sea. Yes, I am dreaming—dreaming!”
“And while you dream, pard,” said Brad, “dream some of the dark deeds,
the crimes, the Bridge of Sighs, the Council of Ten——”
A strange, half-startled exclamation came from the gondolier. He had
paused, clutching his oar, leaning forward—apparently paying attention
to their words for the first time. He could speak a little English, but
Professor Gunn addressed him in Italian:
“What’s the matter, Reggio?”
“The boys, signor.”
“What of them?”
“They talk too much. It is not well. They should be more careful.”
“Careful? I do not understand you, Reggio. Why should they be careful?”
“I hear them speak of the Ten,” whispered Reggio, leaning forward. “It
is very dangerous, signor. Nothing should be spoken.”
“Still I do not understand you,” persisted the amazed old pedagogue.
“The time of the Council of Ten is past forever. There is now no longer
danger that a citizen of Venice may be secretly denounced to the
council, secretly tried and secretly executed. We know that at one time
the despotism of this council was so great that even the Doge himself
became a mere instrument in the hands of that body of tyrants. Now,
however, there is no council——”
The agitation of Reggio had increased as Gunn was speaking, until now it
became absolutely painful to behold. He was trembling violently, and
with shaking hand he entreated the old man to be silent.
“You know not, signor—you know not!” he whispered. “Beware what you say!
If you continue to talk, I must decline to carry you in my gondola—you
and the boys. We must part. I am a poor man. I need the money you pay me
for my services. But most I need my life, not for myself alone, but for
Teresa, my sister.”
“Man,” said Zenas, “you must be crazy! What harm could speaking of——”
“I pray you no more, signor—no more!”
“Well, wouldn’t that beat you!” said Buckhart, who understood a little
Italian, and had succeeded in getting the drift of the talk. “What do
you think of it, pard?”
“I do not know what to think,” confessed Dick, quite as much surprised
and bewildered as Professor Gunn. “It is most remarkable. The man seems
frightened. He actually pretends that we may place his life in peril by
our words.”
“It may be some kind of a trick, Dick.”
“What kind of a trick can it be?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure watching out constant for tricks by these
dagoes. They’re a slippery set, and they seem to think travelers are
fair and legitimate game for plucking.”
“Not all of them, Brad.”
“No, not all; but you know Naples is called ‘the city of thieves,’ and
we certain found it that. This fellow has appeared a heap decent, and——”
“Just so. I’ve taken a liking to him. He’s positively handsome, and he
seems honest. I’ve urged the professor to retain him while we remain in
Venice. But now——”
“We can’t even discuss the history of the city in his presence.”
All effort to induce Reggio to explain proved unavailing. He declined to
explain, and he continued to urge them—in whispers—to talk of something
else.
“I suppose we had better humor him,” said Gunn. “I can’t understand it,
but just to please him we’ll drop it now.”
“I sure judge he has a streak of the daffy in him,” nodded Brad.
The silver moon rose wondrously fair. The evening was cool, still not
cold. The professor and the boys drew some wraps about their shoulders,
having come prepared for the change in the atmosphere.
In the moving gondolas lights began to twinkle and gleam. Soft laughter
floated over the water.
Reggio’s oar moved silently in the water, and the gondola glided through
alternating patches of moonlight and shadow, glory and gloom.
Beneath the moon, Venice was indeed at her best. The defects of age,
seen in the broad light of day, were now hidden by a silver veil. In
places lights gleamed through the casements.
“Pard,” said Buckhart, after a long silence, “I’m a whole lot glad you
were expelled from Fardale!”
“What’s that?” exclaimed Dick, surprised. “Glad I was expelled?”
“Sure!” nodded the Texan grimly. “If you hadn’t been expelled, we’d not
be here together now.”
“That’s true enough.”
“Of course I’m plenty bitter on Chet Arlington, but I opine his day is
coming. The professor will look out for that, all right. You’ll return
to old Fardale in triumph after——”
“We’ll return together, Brad.”
“Yes, we’ll return together—after we’ve seen a right good lot of this
amazing old world, and I allow you’ll be received back with high
acclaim. I can see it now. I can see big Bob, Obediah, Chip, Gardner,
Darrel, Flint, Smart, and all the rest of them, welcoming you back. Just
to think of it stirs me some, you bet! There’ll be something doing at
Fardale that day, Dick—you hear me gently gurgle! Then back to the
diamond, the gridiron, the gymnasium—back to all things we love! And the
yarns we’ll have to tell! The things we’ll have seen! Whoop! I’m sure
busting just to think of it!”
Professor Gunn, who had been listening to the words of the boys, now
observed:
“Youth and anticipation of the glories of the future! Two of the most
joyous things in this old world, boys. Do you know, I’m glad myself that
Dick was expelled. Remarkable, eh? Astonishing and shameful confession,
hey? Well, it’s the truth. Why am I glad? Because it brought me the
companionship of you two lads, something I needed. Yes, I needed it. I’m
a pretty old man, boys, and I find myself inclined to look backward
instead of forward. Instead of thinking of the joys to come, I find I’m
inclined to think of the pleasures past. Now, that’s bad—very bad. When
a man gets to living in the past, he’s in his decline—he’s beginning to
decay—he’s pretty near the end of the road. It’s natural for progress to
constantly look forward. Looking backward means retrogression. You boys
have seemed to arouse in me the looking-forward spirit which I needed.
I, too, think of the future and the pleasures to come. Therefore you
have done me no end of good. Hum! ha! Ha! hum! I hope I’ve not
interfered with your enjoyment of this glorious night by my little
lecture.”
“What’s the matter with Reggio?” questioned Dick in a low tone. “He
still seems excited. He keeps looking back, and——Why does he send the
gondola darting in here so suddenly?”
They had turned with a sudden swing from the broad canal to go speeding
swiftly into a very dark and very narrow passage between high buildings.
“Why did you turn in here, Reggio?” demanded the professor, in Italian.
“Signor, it is best,” was the half-spoken, half-whispered answer.
“Question me not, but trust me. Soon we will be again on the Grand
Canal.”
“I certain believe the man is some bughouse,” said Buckhart. “He’s sure
acting and talking a heap queer to-night.”
“I think he is perfectly trustworthy,” declared Dick; “and he’s the
handsomest gondolier in all Venice.”
“You picked him out, pard, because he was handsome and graceful.”
“No; because I believed I could read honor and sincerity in his face. I
believed he could be trusted.”
“If he’s daffy, he can’t be trusted to any great extent.”
Out of the canal they sped, Reggio’s body swaying rhythmically as he
propelled the craft. He seemed almost feverish in his haste. Soon they
swung again into another narrow channel, where it was very dark, Reggio
turning his head to look round just as he did so. What he saw, if
anything, caused him to increase his efforts.
They began to feel a touch of the almost fierce anxiety which had seized
upon their gondolier. He seemed fleeing before something of which he was
in mortal terror. In the moonlight, before they were sent rushing
through this second dark channel, Dick had obtained a full view of the
Italian’s face. It was pale and set, and his eyes seemed glowing with
strange terror.
What thing was this from which Reggio fled like a hunted man? What peril
pursued him, seen by him alone?
“Reggio!” spoke Dick.
“Silence! silence! silence!” implored the man at the oar.
“He sure has gone luny of a sudden!” whispered Brad. “There is no other
explanation, pard.”
“I don’t like his behavior myself,” confessed the professor. “He’s
getting me nervous. You know there are banded thieves in Venice, who
prey on foreigners. Now——”
“There can be no connection between Reggio’s singular conduct and the
thieves of Venice,” said Dick impatiently. “If he intended to rob us, he
would not first excite our suspicion by his behavior.”
“I judge that’s correct,” nodded the Texan. “I certain allow it’s just a
plain case of daffy on Reggio’s part.”
Once more they glided out upon the moon-lighted surface of the Grand
Canal, and the professor drew a deep breath of relief.
“This is good enough for us, Reggio,” he said. “You don’t have to take
us through those dark alleys to amuse us.”
But the man addressed did not seem to hear. He swung the craft into the
shadow of the palaces at one side of the canal, still sending it forward
with unusual speed. Other gondolas he avoided or passed with great
skill. It was evident they attracted more or less attention by their
surprising haste at that hour.
“I think, boys,” said Zenas Gunn, “that it might be well for us to
return to our rooms and dismiss Reggio.”
But Dick’s interest and curiosity had been aroused. Behind the peculiar
behavior of the man he believed there was something worth understanding.
He scented a mystery, and mysteries always aroused and interested him.
“I couldn’t think of giving up this pleasure in the open air for our
gloomy old rooms,” he said.
“Nor I, pard,” joined in Brad. “I slept a whole lot this forenoon, so
that I’d not be at all sleepy to-night. Night certain is the time to
enjoy Venice. I opine I’ll get into bad habits about hours while we’re
here; but I can’t help it.”
“You boys are tyrants!” exclaimed the professor. “Who is the master
here, may I ask? Am I taking you round, or are you taking me round?”
Dick laughed, and assured the professor that he was the one in supreme
authority, which seemed to relieve and satisfy the old man. In truth,
the boys did just about as they pleased, but they succeeded in this by
making Zenas believe he was the one who wished to do the things that
interested them most. In carrying this out, Dick was far more clever
than Brad.
“Reggio seems to be behaving better,” said Merriwell.
“Correct,” nodded Buckhart. “Mebbe it was a fit he had. It seems gone
now.”
“Though he keeps looking back.”
Once more Dick spoke to the gondolier, asking him why he had seemed to
flee through those narrow and dark channels, and why he kept turning his
head to stare behind them.
Reggio paused and leaned forward.
“Ah!” he said, in a very low voice, “you don’t-a know. I—I feel-a it in
da air.” He spoke in broken English now.
“What did you feel in the air?”
“Death!” whispered the gondolier. “You don’t-a know. You not see-a heem
follow us. He follow. That why I hurry vera much.”
“Whoop!” muttered Brad. “That’s a heap fine! So we had a race with
death, did we? Well, partner, if that isn’t daffy talk, what do you call
it?”
“Do you mean that we were really and truly pursued by anything, Reggio?”
demanded Dick.
“I mean-a it. Death he follow us. But mebbe he not-a after us. He follow
no more now.”