"Hast ever swam in a gondola at Venice?"
SHAKSPEARE.
When Don Camillo Monforte entered the gondola, he did not take his seat
in the pavilion. With an arm leaning on the top of the canopy, and his
cloak thrown loosely over one shoulder, the young noble stood, in a
musing attitude, until his dexterous servitors had extricated the boat
from the little fleet which crowded the quay, and had urged it into open
water. This duty performed, Gino touched his scarlet cap, and looked at
his master as if to inquire the direction in which they were to proceed.
He was answered by a silent gesture that indicated the route of the
great canal.
"Thou hast an ambition, Gino, to show thy skill in the regatta?" Don
Camillo observed, when they had made a little progress. "The motive
merits success. Thou wast speaking to a stranger when I summoned thee to
the gondola?"
"I was asking the news of our Calabrian hills from one who has come into
port with his felucca, though the man took the name of San Gennaro to
witness that his former luckless voyage should be the last."
"How does he call his felucca, and what is the name of the padrone?"
"La Bella Sorrentina, commanded by a certain Stefano Milano, son of an
ancient servant of Sant' Agata. The bark is none of the worst for speed,
and it has some reputation for beauty. It ought to be of happy fortune,
too, for the good curato recommended it, with many a devout prayer, to
the Virgin and to San Francesco."
The noble appeared to lend more attention to the discourse, which, until
now, on his part, had been commenced in the listless manner with which a
superior encourages an indulged dependant.
"La Bella Sorrentina! Have I not reason to know the bark?"
"Nothing more true, Signore. Her padrone has relations at Sant' Agata,
as I have told your eccellenza, and his vessel has lain on the beach
near the castle many a bleak winter."
"What brings him to Venice?"
"That is what I would give my newest jacket of your eccellenza's colors
to know, Signore. I have as little wish to inquire into other people's
affairs as any one, and I very well know that discretion is the chief
virtue of a gondolier. I ventured, however, a deadly hint concerning his
errand, such as ancient neighborhood would warrant, but he was as
cautious of his answers as if he were freighted with the confessions of
fifty Christians. Now, if your eccellenza should see fit to give me
authority to question him in your name, the deuce is in't if between
respect for his lord, and good management, we could not draw something
more than a false bill of lading from him."
"Thou wilt take thy choice of my gondolas for the regatta, Gino,"
observed the Duke of Sant' Agata, entering the pavilion, and throwing
himself on the glossy black leathern cushions, without adverting to the
suggestion of his servant.
The gondola continued its noiseless course, with the sprite-like
movement peculiar to that description of boat. Gino, who, as superior
over his fellow, stood perched on the little arched deck in the stern,
pushed his oar with accustomed readiness and skill, now causing the
light vessel to sheer to the right, and now to the left, as it glided
among the multitude of craft, of all sizes and uses, which it met in
its passage. Palace after palace had been passed, and more than one of
the principal canals, which diverged towards the different spectacles,
or the other places of resort frequented by his master, was left behind,
without Don Camillo giving any new direction. At length the boat arrived
opposite to a building which seemed to excite more than common
expectation. Giorgio worked his oar with a single hand, looking over his
shoulder at Gino, and Gino permitted his blade fairly to trail on the
water. Both seemed to await new orders, manifesting something like that
species of instinctive sympathy with him they served, which a long
practised horse is apt to show when he draws near a gate that is seldom
passed unvisited by his driver.
The edifice which caused this hesitation in the two gondoliers was one
of those residences at Venice, which are quite as remarkable for their
external riches and ornaments as for their singular situation amid the
waters. A massive rustic basement of marble was seated as solidly in the
element as if it grew from a living rock, while story was seemingly
raised on story, in the wanton observance of the most capricious rules
of meretricious architecture, until the pile reached an altitude that is
little known, except in the dwellings of princes. Colonnades,
medallions, and massive cornices overhung the canal, as if the art of
man had taken pride in loading the superstructure in a manner to mock
the unstable element which concealed its base. A flight of steps, on
which each gentle undulation produced by the passage of the barge washed
a wave, conducted to a vast vestibule, that answered many of the
purposes of a court. Two or three gondolas were moored near, but the
absence of their people showed they were for the use of those who dwelt
within. The boats were protected from rough collision with the passing
craft by piles driven obliquely into the bottom. Similar spars, with
painted and ornamented heads, that sometimes bore the colors and arms
of the proprietor, formed a sort of little haven for the gondolas of the
household, before the door of every dwelling of mark.
"Where is it the pleasure of your eccellenza to be rowed?" asked Gino,
when he found his sympathetic delay had produced no order.
"To the Palazzo."
Giorgio threw a glance of surprise back at his comrade, but the obedient
gondola shot by the gloomy, though rich abode, as if the little bark had
suddenly obeyed an inward impulse. In a moment more it whirled aside,
and the hollow sound, caused by the plash of water between high walls,
announced its entrance into a narrower canal. With shortened oars the
men still urged the boat ahead, now turning short into some new channel,
now glancing beneath a low bridge, and now uttering, in the sweet shrill
tones of the country and their craft, the well known warning to those
who were darting in an opposite direction. A backstroke of Gino's oar,
however, soon brought the side of the arrested boat to a flight of
steps.
"Thou wilt follow me," said Don Camillo, as he placed his foot, with the
customary caution, on the moist stone, and laid a hand on the shoulder
of Gino; "I have need of thee."
Neither the vestibule, nor the entrance, nor the other visible
accessories of the dwelling were so indicative of luxury and wealth as
that of the palace on the great canal. Still they were all such as
denoted the residence of a noble of consideration.
"Thou wilt do wisely, Gino, to trust thy fortunes to the new gondola,"
said the master, as he mounted the heavy stone stairs to an upper floor,
pointing, as he spoke, to a new and beautiful boat, which lay in a
corner of the large vestibule, as carriages are seen standing in the
courts of houses built on more solid ground. "He who would find favor
with Jupiter must put his own shoulder to the wheel, thou knowest, my
friend."
The eye of Gino brightened, and he was voluble in his expression of
thanks. They had ascended to the first floor, and were already deep in a
suite of gloomy apartments, before the gratitude and professional pride
of the gondolier were exhausted.
"Aided by a powerful arm and a fleet gondola, thy chance will be as good
as another's, Gino," said Don Camillo, closing the door of his cabinet
on his servant; "at present thou mayest give some proof of zeal in my
service, in another manner. Is the face of a man called Jacopo Frontoni
known to thee?"
"Eccellenza!" exclaimed the gondolier, gasping for breath.
"I ask thee if thou knowest the countenance of one named Frontoni?"
"His countenance, Signore!"
"By what else would'st thou distinguish a man?"
"A man, Signor' Don Camillo!"
"Art thou mocking thy master, Gino? I have asked thee if thou art
acquainted with the person of a certain Jacopo Frontoni, a dweller here
in Venice?"
"Eccellenza, yes."
"He I mean has been long remarked by the misfortunes of his family; the
father being now in exile on the Dalmatian coast, or elsewhere."
"Eccellenza, yes."
"There are many of the name of Frontoni, and it is important that thou
should'st not mistake the man. Jacopo, of that family, is a youth of
some five-and-twenty, of an active frame and melancholy visage, and of
less vivacity of temperament than is wont, at his years."
"Eccellenza, yes."
"One who consorts but little with his fellows, and who is rather noted
for the silence and industry with which he attends to his concerns, than
for any of the usual pleasantries and trifling of men of his cast. A
certain Jacopo Frontoni, that hath his abode somewhere near the
arsenal?"
"Cospetto! Signor' Duca, the man is as well known to us gondoliers as
the bridge of the Rialto! Your eccellenza has no need to trouble
yourself to describe him."
Don Camillo Monforte was searching among the papers of a secretaire. He
raised his eyes in some little amazement at the sally of his dependant,
and then he quietly resumed his occupation.
"If thou knowest the man, it is enough."
"Eccellenza, yes. And what is your pleasure with this accursed Jacopo?"
The Duke of Sant' Agata seemed to recollect himself. He replaced the
papers which had been deranged, and he closed the secretaire.
"Gino," he said, in a tone of confidence and amity, "thou wert born on
my estates, though so long trained here to the oar in Venice, and thou
hast passed thy life in my service."
"Eccellenza, yes."
"It is my desire that thou should'st end thy days where they began. I
have had much confidence in thy discretion hitherto, and I have
satisfaction in saying it has never failed thee, notwithstanding thou
hast necessarily been a witness of some exploits of youth which might
have drawn embarrassment on thy master were thy tongue less disposed to
silence."
"Eccellenza, yes."
Don Camillo smiled; but the gleam of humor gave way to a look of grave
and anxious thought.
"As thou knowest the person of him I have named, our affair is simple.
Take this packet," he continued, placing a sealed letter of more than
usual size into the hand of the gondolier, and drawing from his finger a
signet ring, "with this token of thy authority. Within that arch of the
Doge's palace which leads to the canal of San Marco, beneath the Bridge
of Sighs, thou wilt find Jacopo. Give him the packet; and, should he
demand it, withhold not the ring. Wait his bidding, and return with the
answer."
Gino received this commission with profound respect, but with an awe he
could not conceal. Habitual deference to his master appeared to struggle
with deep distaste for the office he was required to perform; and there
was even some manifestation of a more principled reluctance, in his
hesitating yet humble manner. If Don Camillo noted the air and
countenance of his menial at all, he effectually concealed it.
"At the arched passage of the palace, beneath the Bridge of Sighs," he
coolly added; "and let thy arrival there be timed, as near as may be, to
the first hour of the night."
"I would, Signore, that you had been pleased to command Giorgio and me
to row you to Padua!"
"The way is long. Why this sudden wish to weary thyself?"
"Because there is no Doge's palace, nor any Bridge of Sighs, nor any dog
of Jacopo Frontoni among the meadows."
"Thou hast little relish for this duty; but thou must know that what the
master commands it is the duty of a faithful follower to perform. Thou
wert born my vassal, Gino Monaldi; and though trained from boyhood in
this occupation of a gondolier, thou art properly a being of my fiefs in
Napoli."
"St. Gennaro make me grateful for the honor, Signore! But there is not a
water-seller in the streets of Venice, nor a mariner on her canals, who
does not wish this Jacopo anywhere but in the bosom of Abraham. He is
the terror of every young lover, and of all the urgent creditors on the
islands."
"Thou seest, silly babbler, there is one of the former, at least, who
does not hold him in dread. Thou wilt seek him beneath the Bridge of
Sighs, and, showing the signet, deliver the package according to my
instructions."
"It is certain loss of character to be seen speaking with the miscreant!
So lately as yesterday, I heard Annina, the pretty daughter of the old
wine-seller on the Lido, declare, that to be seen once in company with
Jacopo Frontoni was as bad as to be caught twice bringing old rope from
the arsenal, as befell Roderigo, her mother's cousin."
"Thy distinctions savor of the morals of the Lido. Remember to exhibit
the ring, lest he distrust thy errand."
"Could not your eccellenza set me about clipping the wings of the lion,
or painting a better picture than Tiziano di Vecelli? I have a mortal
dislike even to pass the mere compliments of the day with one of your
cut-throats. Were any of our gondoliers to see me in discourse with the
man, it might exceed your eccellenza's influence to get me a place in
the regatta."
"If he detain thee, Gino, thou wilt wait his pleasure; and if he dismiss
thee at once, return hither with all expedition, that I may know the
result."
"I very well know, Signor Don Camillo, that the honor of a noble is more
tender of reproach than that of his followers, and that the stain upon
the silken robe of a senator is seen farther than the spot upon a velvet
jacket. If any one unworthy of your eccellenza's notice has dared to
offend, here are Giorgio and I, ready, at any time, to show how deeply
we can feel an indignity which touches our master's credit; but a
hireling of two, or ten, or even of a hundred sequins!"
"I thank thee for the hint, Gino. Go thou and sleep in thy gondola, and
bid Giorgio come into my cabinet."
"Signore!"
"Art thou resolute to do none of my biddings?"
"Is it your eccellenza's pleasure that I go to the Bridge of Sighs by
the footways of the streets, or by the canals?"
"There may be need of a gondola--thou wilt go with the oar."
"A tumbler shall not have time to turn round before the answer of Jacopo
shall be here."
With this sudden change of purpose the gondolier quitted the room, for
the reluctance of Gino disappeared the moment he found the confidential
duty assigned him by his master was likely to be performed by another.
Descending rapidly by a secret stair instead of entering the vestibule
where half a dozen menials of different employments were in waiting, he
passed by one of the narrow corridors of the palace into an inner court,
and thence by a low and unimportant gate into an obscure alley which
communicated with the nearest street.
Though the age is one of so great activity and intelligence, and the
Atlantic is no longer a barrier even to the ordinary amusements of life,
a great majority of Americans have never had an opportunity of
personally examining the remarkable features of a region, of which the
town that Gino now threaded with so much diligence is not the least
worthy of observation. Those who have been so fortunate as to have
visited Italy, therefore, will excuse us if we make a brief, but what we
believe useful digression, for the benefit of those who have not had
that advantage.
The city of Venice stands on a cluster of low sandy islands. It is
probable that the country which lies nearest to the gulf, if not the
whole of the immense plain of Lombardy itself, is of alluvial formation.
Whatever may have been the origin of that wide and fertile kingdom, the
causes which have given to the Lagunes their existence, and to Venice
its unique and picturesque foundation, are too apparent to be mistaken.
Several torrents which flow from the valleys of the Alps pour their
tribute into the Adriatic at this point. Their waters come charged with
the débris of the mountains, pulverized nearly to their original
elements. Released from the violence of the stream, these particles have
necessarily been deposited in the gulf, at the spot where they have
first become subjected to the power of the sea. Under the influence of
counteracting currents, eddies, and waves, the sands have been thrown
into submarine piles, until some of the banks have arisen above the
surface, forming islands, whose elevation has been gradually augmented
by the decay of vegetation. A glance at the map will show that, while
the Gulf of Venice is not literally, it is practically, considered with
reference to the effect produced by the south-east wind called the
Sirocco, at the head of the Adriatic. This accidental circumstance is
probably the reason why the Lagunes have a more determined character at
the mouths of the minor streams that empty themselves here than at the
mouths of most of the other rivers, which equally flow from the Alps or
the Apennines into the same shallow sea.
The natural consequence of a current of a river meeting the waters of
any broad basin, and where there is no base of rock, is the formation,
at or near the spot where the opposing actions are neutralized, of a
bank, which is technically called a bar. The coast of the Union
furnishes constant evidence of the truth of this theory, every river
having its bar, with channels that are often shifted, or cleared, by the
freshets, the gales, or the tides. The constant and powerful operation
of the south-eastern winds on one side, with the periodical increase of
the Alpine streams on the other, have converted this bar at the entrance
of the Venetian Lagunes, into a succession of long, low, sandy islands,
which extend in a direct line nearly across the mouth of the gulf. The
waters of the rivers have necessarily cut a few channels for their
passage, or, what is now a lagune, would long since have become a lake.
Another thousand years may so far change the character of this
extraordinary estuary as to convert the channels of the bay into rivers,
and the muddy banks into marshes and meadows, resembling those that are
now seen for so many leagues inland.
The low margin of sand that, in truth, gives all its maritime security
to the port of Venice and the Lagunes, is called the Lido di Palestrino.
It has been artificially connected and secured, in many places, and the
wall of the Lido (literally the beach), though incomplete, like most of
the great and vaunted works of the other hemisphere, and more
particularly of Italy, ranks with the mole of Ancona, and the sea-wall
of Cherbourg. The hundred little islands which now contain the ruins of
what, during the middle ages, was the mart of the Mediterranean, are
grouped together within cannon-shot of the natural barrier. Art has
united with nature to turn the whole to good account; and, apart from
the influence of moral causes, the rivalry of a neighboring town, which
has been fostered by political care, and the gradual filling up of the
waters, by the constant deposit of the streams, it would be difficult to
imagine a more commodious, or a safer haven when entered, than that
which Venice affords, even to this hour.
As all the deeper channels of the Lagunes have been preserved, the city
is intersected in every direction by passages, which from their
appearance are called canals, but which, in truth, are no more than so
many small natural branches of the sea. On the margin of these passages,
the walls of the dwellings arise literally from out of the water, since
economy of room has caused their owners to extend their possessions to
the very verge of the channel, in the manner that quays and wharfs are
pushed into the streams in our own country. In many instances the
islands themselves were no more than banks, which were periodically
bare, and on all, the use of piles has been necessary to support the
superincumbent loads of palaces, churches, and public monuments, under
which, in the course of ages, the humble spits of sand have been made
to groan.
The great frequency of the canals, and perhaps some attention to economy
of labor, has given to by far the greater part of the buildings the
facility of an approach by water. But, while nearly every dwelling has
one of its fronts on a canal, there are always communications by the
rear with the interior passages of the town. It is a fault in most
descriptions, that while the stranger hears so much of the canals of
Venice, but little is said of her streets: still, narrow, paved,
commodious, and noiseless passages of this description, intersect all
the islands, which communicate with each other by means of a countless
number of bridges. Though the hoof of a horse or the rumbling of a wheel
is never heard in these strait avenues, they are of great resort for all
the purposes of ordinary intercourse.
Gino issued into one of these thoroughfares when he quitted the private
passage which communicated with the palace of his master. He threaded
the throng by which it was crowded, with a dexterity that resembled the
windings of an eel among the weeds of the Lagunes. To the numerous
greetings of his fellows, he replied only by nods; nor did he once
arrest his footsteps, until they had led him through the door of a low
and dark dwelling that stood in a quarter of the place which was
inhabited by people of an inferior condition. Groping his way among
casks, cordage, and rubbish of all descriptions, the gondolier succeeded
in finding an inner and retired door that opened into a small room,
whose only light came from a species of well that descended between the
walls of the adjacent houses and that in which he was.
"Blessed St. Anne! Is it thou, Gino Monaldi!" exclaimed a smart Venetian
grisette, whose tone and manner betrayed as much of coquetry as of
surprise. "On foot, and by the secret door! Is this an hour to come on
any of thy errands?"
"Truly, Annina, it is not the season for affairs with thy father, and
it is something early for a visit to thee. But there is less time for
words than for action, just now. For the sake of San Teodoro, and that
of a constant and silly young man, who, if not thy slave, is at least
thy dog, bring forth the jacket I wore when we went together to see the
merry-making at Fusina."
"I know nothing of thy errand, Gino, nor of thy reason for wishing to
change thy master's livery for the dress of a common boatman. Thou art
far more comely with those silken flowers than in this faded velveteen;
and if I have ever said aught in commendation of its appearance, it was
because we were bent on merry-making, and being one of the party, it
would have been churlish to have withheld a word of praise to a
companion, who, as thou knowest, does not dislike a civil speech in his
own praise."
"Zitto, zitto! here is no merry-making and companions, but a matter of
gravity, and one that must be performed offhand. The jacket, if thou
lovest me!"
Annina, who had not neglected essentials while she moralized on motives,
threw the garment on a stool that stood within reach of the gondolier's
hand, as he made this strong appeal in a way to show that she was not to
be surprised out of a confession of this sort, even in the most
unguarded moment.
"If I love thee, truly! Thou hast the jacket, Gino, and thou mayest
search in its pockets for an answer to thy letter, which I do not thank
thee for having got the duca's secretary to indite. A maiden should be
discreet in affairs of this sort; for one never knows but he may make a
confidant of a rival."
"Every work of it is as true as if the devil himself had done the office
for me, girl," muttered Gino, uncasing himself from his flowery
vestment, and as rapidly assuming the plainer garment he had
sought--"The cap, Annina, and the mask!"
"One who wears so false a face, in common, has little need of a bit of
silk to conceal his countenance," she answered, throwing him,
notwithstanding, both the articles he required.
"This is well. Father Battista himself, who boasts he can tell a sinner
from a penitent merely by the savor of his presence, would never suspect
a servitor of Don Camillo Monforte in this dress. Cospetto! but I have
half a mind to visit that knave of a Jew, who has got thy golden chain
in pledge, and give him a hint of what may be the consequences, should
he insist on demanding double the rate of interest we agreed on."
"'Twould be Christian justice! but what would become of thy matter of
gravity the while, Gino, and of thy haste to enter on its performance?"
"Thou sayest truly, girl. Duty above all other things; though to
frighten a grasping Hebrew may be as much of a duty as other matters.
Are all thy father's gondolas in the water?"
"How else could he be gone to the Lido, and my brother Luigi to Fusini,
and the two serving-men on the usual business to the islands, or how
else should I be alone?"
"Diavolo! is there no boat in the canal?"
"Thou art in unwonted haste, Gino, now thou hast a mask and jacket of
velvet. I know not that I should suffer one to enter my father's house
when I am in it alone, and take such disguises to go abroad, at this
hour. Thou wilt tell me thy errand, that I may judge of the propriety of
what I do."
"Better ask the Three Hundred to open the leaves of their book of doom!
Give me the key of the outer door, girl, that I may go my way."
"Not till I know whether this business is likely to draw down upon my
father the displeasure of the Senate. Thou knowest, Gino, that I am----"
"Diamine! There goes the clock of San Marco, and I tarry past my hour.
If I am too late, the fault will rest with thee."
"'Twill not be the first of thy oversights which it has been my business
to excuse. Here thou art, and here shalt thou remain, until I know the
errand which calls for a mask and jacket, and all about this matter of
gravity."
"This is talking like a jealous wife instead of a reasonable girl,
Annina. I have told thee that I am on business of the last importance,
and that delay may bring heavy calamities."
"On whom? What is thy business? Why art thou, whom in general it is
necessary to warn from this house by words many times repeated, now in
such a haste to leave it?"
"Have I not told thee, girl, 'tis an errand of great concern to six
noble families, and if I fail to be in season there may be a
strife--aye, between the Florentine and the Republic!"
"Thou hast said nothing of the sort, nor do I put faith in thy being an
ambassador of San Marco. Speak truth for once, Gino Monaldi, or lay
aside the mask and jacket, and take up thy flowers of Sant' Agata."
"Well, then, as we are friends, and I have faith in thy discretion,
Annina, thou shalt know the truth to the extremity, for I find the bell
has only tolled the quarters, which leaves me yet a moment for
confidence."
"Thou lookest at the wall, Gino, and art consulting thy wits for some
plausible lie!"
"I look at the wall because conscience tells me that too much weakness
for thee is about to draw me astray from duty. What thou takest for
deceit is only shame and modesty."
"Of that we shall judge, when the tale is told."
"Then listen. Thou hast heard of the affair between my master and the
niece of the Roman Marchese, who was drowned in the Giudecca by the
carelessness of an Ancona-man, who passed over the gondola of Pietro as
if his felucca had been a galley of state?"
"Who has been upon the Lido the month past without hearing the tale
repeated, with every variation of a gondolier's anger?"
"Well, the matter is likely to come to a conclusion this night; my
master is about to do, as I fear, a very foolish thing."
"He will be married!"
"Or worse! I am sent in all haste and secresy in search of a priest."
Annina manifested strong interest in the fiction of the gondolier.
Either from a distrustful temperament, long habit, or great familiarity
with the character of her companion, however, she did not listen to his
explanation without betraying some doubts of its truth.
"This will be a sudden bridal feast!" she said, after a moment of pause.
"'Tis well that few are invited, or its savor might be spoiled by the
Three Hundred! To what convent art thou sent?"
"My errand is not particular. The first that may be found, provided he
be a Franciscan, and a priest likely to have bowels for lovers in
haste."
"Don Camillo Monforte, the heir of an ancient and great line, does not
wive with so little caution. Thy false tongue has been trying to deceive
me, Gino; but long use should have taught thee the folly of the effort.
Unless thou sayest truth, not only shalt thou not go to thy errand, but
here art thou prisoner at my pleasure."
"I may have told thee what I expect will shortly happen, rather than
what has happened. But Don Camillo keeps me so much upon the water of
late, that I do little besides dream, when not at the oar."
"It is vain to attempt deceiving me, Gino, for thine eye speaketh
truth, let thy tongue and brains wander where they will. Drink of this
cup, and disburden thy conscience, like a man."
"I would that thy father would make the acquaintance of Stefano Milano,"
resumed the gondolier, taking a long breath, after a still longer
draught. "'Tis a padrone of Calabria, who oftentimes brings into the
port excellent liquors of his country, and who would pass a cask of the
red lachryma christi through the Broglio itself, and not a noble of them
all should see it. The man is here at present, and, if thou wilt, he
shall not be long without coming into terms with thee for a few skins."
"I doubt if he have better liquors than this which hath ripened upon the
sands of the Lido. Take another draught, for the second taste is thought
to be better than the first."
"If the wine improve in this manner, thy father should be heavy-hearted
at the sight of the lees. 'Twould be no more than charity to bring him
and Stefano acquainted."
"Why not do it immediately? His felucca is in the port, thou sayest, and
thou canst lead him hither by the secret door and the lanes."
"Thou forgettest my errand. Don Camillo is not used to be served the
second. Cospetto! 'T were a pity that any other got the liquor which I
am certain the Calabrian has in secret."
"This errand can be no matter of a moment, like that of being sure of
wine of the quality thou namest; or, if it be, thou canst first dispatch
thy master's business, and then to the port, in quest of Stefano. That
the purchase may not fail, I will take a mask and be thy companion, to
see the Calabrian. Thou knowest my father hath much confidence in my
judgment in matters like this."
While Gino stood half stupified and half delighted at this proposition,
the ready and wily Annina made some slight change in her outer
garments, placed a silken mask before her face, applied a key to the
door, and beckoned to the gondolier to follow.
The canal with which the dwelling of the wine-dealer communicated, was
narrow, gloomy, and little frequented. A gondola of the plainest
description was fastened near, and the girl entered it, without
appearing to think any further arrangement necessary. The servant of Don
Camillo hesitated a single instant, but having seen that his
half-meditated project of escaping by the use of another boat could not
be accomplished for want of means, he took his worried place in the
stern, and began to ply the oar with mechanical readiness.