Among those who were on the steps of San Michele when the funeral
gondola of Professor Mora reached them was a man who seemed to be
waiting to assist at his burial. He followed to the chapel, and went
away as soon as the service was over.
He was a young man, scarcely more than thirty years of age, a little
taller than medium, slender, but athletic, and of a dark complexion. In
the light, his dark hair had an auburn tinge, and his dark eyes a violet
shade. His fine serious face had a look of high intelligence, and in the
church, something even exalted, in its expression. He had brows to which
Lavater would have ascribed great powers of observation; and his look
was steady and penetrating. It recalled the old story of disguised
deities who were recognized by their moveless eyeballs. He was quiet,
and his dress was conventional, neither fine nor coarse. Both face and
manner expressed refinement. It could be seen that his hands bore the
marks of labor. If you had asked what his trade was, he would have said
that he was a carpenter. Those who looked at him once with any
attention, looked again.
When the funeral was over, this young man crossed the Laguna Morta, and
landed at the steps behind San Marco. He went round into the church,
looking at every part of it attentively. He did not appear to be either
an artist or a worshiper, still less a tourist.
He might have been taken for an artisan who examined intelligently, but
without enthusiasm, to see how the work was done. A closer view of his
luminous dark eyes revealed a second expression, something mystical and
exalted, as though he looked through the object his glance touched, and
saw, not only the workman who had wrought it, but his mind and
intention.
He made one slow circuit of the church, uttering not a word till he went
up stairs and looked at the Judas hanging to a tree, the fresco half
hidden in a corner of the gallery.
“_Absit!_” he exclaimed then, shuddering.
As he went out of the church, an old man seated on the step tried to
rise, but with difficulty, being lame. The stranger aided him.
“You suffer,” he said kindly. “Are you very poor?”
“I do not suffer much,” the old man replied in a cheerful tone. “But my
joints are stiff. And I am not poor. I have a son who earns good wages,
thank God!”
A sweet smile lighted for an instant the stranger’s face. “Addio,
brother!” he said, and went on, out through the piazzetta, and down the
Riva degli Schiavoni.
Near a _rio_ along which stretched a garden, several boys were engaged
with some object around which they were crouched on the pavement. It
proved to be a little green lizard which they had caught on the garden
wall. They were trying to harness it to a bunch of leaves. The little
thing lay on its back, gasping.
The stranger, with a quick, fiery movement, pushed the boys aside, and
released their captive. He took the nearly dead creature in his hand,
and carried it to the garden wall, then returned to the boys, who had
been surprised into a temporary quiescence.
“Boys,” he said, “when some strong, cruel person shall make you suffer
for his amusement, remember that lizard. If you should some day be
helpless and terrified and parched with thirst, remember it.”
He left them speechlessly staring at him, called a gondola, and gave the
direction of the railway station. As he passed Ca’ Mora, he looked
earnestly at the window over the balcony. Elena stepped out and saw him.
He raised his hand above his face in salutation, and she replied,
raising her hand in the same way.
When he reached the railway landing, two gondoliers were standing on the
steps, confronting each other in loud and angry dispute. They
gesticulated, and flung profane and furious epithets at each other.
The stranger paused near them, and looked at one of the disputants with
a steady gaze that seemed presently to check his volubility. The man
grew uneasy, his attention was divided, he faltered in some retort, then
turned abruptly away from his still menacing antagonist, and began to
fumble with the oars and _felse_ of his gondola.
The stranger went into the station and bought his ticket. As he stood
waiting, the gondolier he had observed came in and accosted him
respectfully, and with some embarrassment.
“I suppose you thought I was behaving badly, signore,” he said. “But
Piero has got three passengers away from me to-day, and I couldn’t stand
it.”
“I have not condemned you, friend,” said the stranger mildly. “What does
your own judgment say?”
The man’s eyes fell. “I needn’t have used certain words,” he said in a
low tone.
“Your judgment decides well,” said the stranger. “It has no need of my
interference. Addio, Gianbattista Feroli.”
“Addio!” the gondolier echoed dreamily, and stood looking after him. “He
has a saint’s face,” he muttered. “But how did he know my name!”