Lawrence turned into the swarming alleys leading to the Rialto.
Streams of Venetians were eddying about the cul-de-sacs and enclosed
squares, hurrying over the bridges of the canals, turning in and out of
the calles, or coming to rest at the church doors. Lawrence drifted
tranquilly on. He had slipped a cable; he was free and ready for the
open sea. Following at random any turning that offered, he came out
suddenly upon Verocchio's black horseman against the black sky. The San
Zanipolo square was deserted; the cavernous San Zanipolo tenanted by
tombs. Stone figures, seated, a-horse, lying carved in death, started
out from the silent walls.
"Condottieri," the man muttered, "great robbers who saw and took!
Briseghella, Mocenigo, Leonardo Loredan, Vittore Capello." He rolled
the powerful names under his breath. "They are right--Take, enjoy; then
die." And he saw a hill sleeping sweetly in the mountains, where the
sun rested on its going down, and a villino with two old trees where
the court seemed ever silent. In the stealthy, passing hours she came
and sat in the sun, and _was_. And the two remembered, looking on the
valley road, that somewhere lay in the past a procession of storms and
mornings and nights which was called the world, and a procession of
people which was called life. But she looked at him and smiled.
Outside in the square the transparent dusk of Venice settled down. In
the broad canal of the Misericordia a faint plash and drip from a
passing gondola; then, in a moment, as the boat rounded into the rio, a
resounding "Stai"; again silence and the robber in bronze.