COUNT POLLIDORI’S PALACE.—SIGNORA ISABELLA, THE COUNT’S DAUGHTER.—THE
INTRODUCTION.
The stranger walked up to him and offered his services, saying,—
“Are you hurt, signor?—you bleed!”
“But slightly hurt, signor, thank you for that; you have saved my life.
I had been cold meat, indeed—a bloody corpse for all Venice to look
upon to-morrow, but for your valour and stout assistance.”
“Name it not, signor; but the rascals have been well paid. There lies
one of them—the others have escaped; but permit me, signor, to say,
that the sooner you get away from this spot the better, for the knaves
may return in greater force than before, or they will wait till you
leave; by that time they will have rallied, and dart out upon you as
you pass along.”
“I do not fear that, signor, much; but the fact is, I am almost too
weak to walk unaided.”
“Permit me to render you the assistance you require. I am a stranger in
this place, and therefore unused to your ways; but—”
“Say no more, signor; I will accept of your services if you will
accept of a lodging at my poor home. I have that which shall make you
welcome—heartily welcome; and the signora, my daughter, shall make you
welcome, too.”
“Signor, if I can be of service to you I will do so with pleasure. Lend
me your arm, signor; but your wound is not stanched—let me bind it more
carefully and securely; you ought not to bleed from such a wound when
bandaged.”
“Perhaps, signor, you have had more to do with these matters than I. I
am a peaceable Venetian of rank, and neither afraid nor unwilling to
draw a sword in a good quarrel, shrinking not from some odds, but I
have had no practice in these matters; times and circumstances have not
been propitious.”
“It matters not,” replied the stranger; “you shewed what you were
when you had nearly defeated one, and afterwards kept at bay three.
He must be a man who can behave thus, sir; he must have the heart and
conduct of a soldier—you would be one did occasion serve—no man can be
more; but I have seen many climes, and have therefore some knowledge
in these matters beyond the mere inward power and courage. I have,
from sheer necessity, been compelled to mix in _melees_, and not from
inclination.”
“I thank you for your skill as a surgeon, for truly you have stopped
the bleeding, which I had not been able to do myself.”
“Lean on my shoulder, signor; it will enable you to walk better. Have
you far to go?” inquired the stranger.
“No, signor; but we will take a gondola, it will be the easier
travelling, and, moreover, it will land us at my house, where you shall
be most heartily welcome. If we turn down here, we shall soon obtain
the aid of a gondolier. I had intended walking, but I have enough of
that for one night, even if I were able to walk, which I am not.”
“As you please, signor.”
As the stranger spoke he walked towards the place indicated by the
wounded man, and in a few moments more they reached the grand canal,
and finding a gondolier sleeping in his gondola, the stranger left his
wounded companion to wake the sleeper to his duty, by shaking him.
“Hillo!” said the stranger, “will nothing wake you—get up instantly,
and about your duty. Do you always sleep here?”
“No, signor,” said the man, sleepily.
“Well, then, are you engaged?”
“Yes, signor, if you engage me.”
“Well, then, I do.”
“Where to, signor?”
“Come with me to bring a wounded gentleman into the gondola, and he
will tell you where to. Come, quick—have you not yet awakened?”
“I’m awake, signor, and willing,” said the gondolier, following the
stranger to the spot where the wounded man was standing, and, by
direction of the stranger, he aided the wounded signor into the gondola.
“Now, signors, I have but to know where you desire to go to.”
“Row on until I tell you where to stop. Follow the course of the grand
canal, and you will go right enough.”
There was some time spent in silence, while the gondolier rowed as
desired up the grand canal, until they came to a large mansion, which
the wounded man gazed upon, and, after a moment’s pause, as if he had a
difficulty in speaking, he said, as he pointed to the building,—
“There, row up to yonder steps; there I will land—that is my house.”
The gondolier immediately obeyed the injunction, and pulled for the
stairs, and when they reached the place, the gondolier stepped out and
secured the gondola.
“Call out some of my people,” said the wounded man, “call them out. I
am very stiff, and not able to get out.”
The gondolier obeyed, and in a few minutes more several men, all in
livery, ran down the steps to the gondola, and lifted their master out,
who appeared to be unable to do so of himself.
[Illustration: The servants carry their master into his house.]
The gondolier was rewarded according to his deserts, and the stranger
followed the wounded man into his own house, which was a most extensive
building, and filled with servants, and furnished in the richest
manner, displaying magnificence and wealth to a degree that was scarce
to be surpassed in Venice.
They were shown into an apartment replete with every appointment that
wealth or luxury could suggest, and the wounded man was placed on a
sofa, and his attendants stood round him as if waiting his orders.
“Signor and stranger,” he said, “welcome to my house, as the preserver
of my life. All I have here is at your service.”
“I am obliged,” replied the stranger, with a dignified acknowledgement
of the courtesy—“I am obliged; but I cannot recognise on my part any
such right. If I have done you service—as I will not affect to believe
I have not—still you overrate the amount of it. But I will accept of
your hospitality for this night; for I am a stranger in Venice, and
have little or no knowledge of the best course to pursue.”
“Remain here.”
“But you had better dispatch some one for aid,” interrupted the
stranger. “You are in pain, at this very instant; send for some
assistance. You require the aid of a leech immediately.”
“I am faint—very faint,” he replied.
“Hasten,” said the stranger—“hasten some of you to fetch a leech,
instead of losing your wits in silent astonishment.”
The servants immediately bustled about, and seemed to have awakened
from a trance, and were seen running in different directions. The room
was soon cleared, and the tall stranger seated himself by his wounded
host.
“In me you see the Count Pollidori.”
The stranger bowed.
“I am not a native of this city, though now one of her favoured
citizens. I have left the land of my birth because I and my rulers
could not agree, and I ran some danger in staying against their will,
and I have settled and married here.”
“Our adopted country is that which demands our care and preference,”
replied the stranger. “That, at least, is my opinion.”
“No doubt. I am now,” he continued, “a widower.”
“Your lady is dead?”
“Yes; I am sorry to say so. I have, however, one child living at home,
and one who is serving his country in her fleets, an honour to our
house; but my greatest comfort is the dear image of my lost wife—my
daughter.”
“Is she here now?”
“Yes; in this palace. Signora Isabella is devoted to her father, and
would not for the world do aught that would give me a moment’s pain;
indeed, she would die for me rather than I should feel displeasure.”
“Such a daughter must be a treasure.”
“She is a treasure.”
“And what an inestimable jewel would she be as a wife.”
“She will be when the day comes when she will mate, which I hope will
be before I die; for I should be too anxious respecting the worth of
the man who was to be her husband, to permit me to die happy, unless I
saw and approved of the choice, or chose the individual myself.”
“I see you are more anxious,” said the stranger, mildly, “in providing
future happiness for your daughter, rather than in hoarding wealth or
titles for her.”
“I am,” said the count.
“And a most laudable ambition, too; an ambition that few parents do
not neglect in the pursuit of one of a different character—either some
young love, or some one who is endowed largely with worldly goods or
titles.”
“My Isabella will have enough of both; and, therefore, she will not
need to seek for them; but she will not throw herself away upon any
nameless adventurer who may love her fortune better than herself.”
“That would be as cruel a neglect as the other,” replied the stranger;
“and, in my opinion, more culpable of the two.”
“So it would.”
At that moment the door opened hastily, and a light step was heard, and
before the stranger could turn round, a lovely young female rushed to
the side of the count, throwing herself on her knees, saying,—
“Oh, heavens! my dear father, what has happened? Are you hurt? For
Heaven’s sake, my dear father, what is the matter?”
“Little or nothing, my dear Isabella.”
“But you are wounded. Ah! there is blood! My God! my God!”
“Hush, Isabella. I am wounded, but not hurt seriously.”
“I pray Heaven it may be so. But what sacrilegious hand could be raised
against you? You have wronged no one.”
“I am not aware of having done so, certainly,” said the count; “but
that does not always give any security to the wealthy. They will
sometimes destroy them from motives apart from individual revenge.”
“The monsters! But have the villains been secured?”
“One has paid the forfeit of his life for his temerity and villainy;
the rest fled.”
“Ah! what will these assassins not risk?”
“Well, my dear Isabella, I have answered your inquiries, and now,
perhaps, you will see if you be alone with me.”
“Alone with you!” repeated Isabella, not quite comprehending the words;
but she looked up, and her eyes encountered those of the stranger, who
was gazing earnestly upon her, and she started, as she rose and said,—
“Excuse me, signor, excuse me—I knew not any one was present.”
“Nay,” said the stranger, “filial love and respect need no excuse,
signora. Do not think so badly of me as to imagine I can think
otherwise than you were actuated by the tenderest impulses.”
“Your kindness, sir——”
“Isabella,” said the count, interrupting her, “but for this gentleman’s
timely and efficient aid, I should at this moment have been a corpse in
the streets of Venice.”
“You, my father?”
“Yes, my child. This signor came up just as I was wounded and beaten
down, and saved me from death. He killed one of my assailants, while
he put to flight the other two, who left their dead companion in the
streets. Thank him, my child, for he is my preserver, and he deserves
thanks for the deed as well as for the bravery with which it was done,
for he ran great risks in such odds.”
“He must. Signor, I know not how to thank you or what to say; the
greatness of the obligation paralyses me, and I have not words to tell
you how grateful I feel for your goodness and courage; but ’tis an
obligation that can never be forgotten or ever repaid—it is impossible.”
“My dear signora, permit me to say you rate my services too highly.”
“Nay, that is quite impossible; for my father’s life I prize far before
my own—before anybody in the world; and to save that is to lay me under
the heaviest obligation it is possible to impose upon me.”
“Say no more, signora; I will not underrate it after what you have
said; but you must say as little about it as you will. I am happy,
however, to have done any act worthy of your thanks.”