Summer has faded, the gold of autumn has turned to brown, and the raw,
cold winds of winter have whirled the dead leaves over rookeries, quay,
and garden. The boats rock at their tethers and now and then a sea gull
darts through the canal and sweeps on to the lagoon. In the narrow
opening fronting the broad waters lawless waves quarrel and clash,
forcing their way among the frightened ripples of San Giuseppe, ashy
gray under the lowering sky.
All these months a girl has clung to an iron grating or has lain on a
pallet in one corner of her cell. Once in a while she presses her lips
to a ring on her left hand, her face lighting up. Sometimes she breaks
out into a song, continuing until the keeper checks her.
Then spring comes.
And with it the painter from over the sea.
All the way from Milan as far as Verona, and beyond, there have been
nothing but blossoms,--masses of blossoms,--oleander, peach, and almond.
When the train reaches Mestre and the cool salt air fans his cheek, he
can no longer keep his seat, so eager is he to catch the first glimpse
of his beloved city,--now a string of pearls on the bosom of the lagoon.
Luigi has the painter's hand before his feet can touch the platform.
"Good news, Signore!" he laughs, patting my shoulder. "She is free!"
"Loretta!"
"Yes,--she and Vittorio are back in their garden. Borodini told the
whole story to the good Queen Mother when she came at Easter, and the
king pardoned her."
"Pardoned her! And Francesco dead!"
"Dead! No such good luck, Signore,--that brute of a crab-fisher got
well!"