The devil is credited with building many bridges on the earth; it is
hard to know why he should have done so, since waters however wide
cannot possibly have been an obstacle in his own path.
But Devil’s Bridges there are, from the Hebrides to the Isles of
Greece; the Devil’s Bridge at Torcello has been so called from the
height and breadth of its one arch, but there is nothing diabolic or
infernal in its appearance; it is of old brick made beautiful in its
hues by age, and has many seeding grasses and weeds growing in its
crevices. Its banks are rich in grass; in flags, in sea lavender, and
about it grow hazel trees and pear trees.
There is nowhere in the world any grass richer than that of Torcello,
and forget-me-nots, honeysuckle, and wild roses grow down to the
water’s edge and around the hoary stones of the deserted isle.
“What a God-forgotten place!” said a young man as he sprang from a
boat on to the bank by the bridge.
“Torcello was the mother of Venice; the daughter has slain her,”
replied an older man as he laid down his oars in the boat, and
prepared to follow his companion.
His foot trod amongst the hemlock leaves and was entangled by them;
he stooped, and his eyes, which were very keen, caught sight of the
string of opals.
“A woman’s necklace!” he said, as he drew it out from under the salt
seaweed, and the dewy dock leaves. It was discoloured, and had sand
and mud on it, and bore little traces of its former beauty; but he
recognised that it was a jewel of worth; he perceived, even dulled as
they were, that the stones were opals.
“What have you there?” cried the younger man from above on the bank.
“The skull of an Archimandrite?”
The other threw the necklace up on to the grass.
“You would have been a fitter finder of a woman’s collar than I am.”
“Opals! The stones of sorrow!” said the younger man, gravely, as
he raised it and brushed off the sand. “It has been beautiful,” he
added. “It will be so again. It is not really hurt, only a little
bruised and tarnished.”
The necklace interested him; he examined it minutely as the sun shone
on the links of dimmed gold. It awakened in him an image of the woman
who might have possessed and worn it.
“What will you do with it?” he said to his companion, who had mounted
on to the bank after securing the boat.
“What does one always do with things found? Send them to the police,
I believe.”
“Oh you Goth!” said the younger. “Let us spend our lives in
discovering the owner.”
“You can spend yours so if you like, Prince. Mine is already in bond
to a severer mistress.”
“Lend me your glass,” said the younger man; the glass was of strong
magnifying power; when it was handed to him he looked through it
at some little marks on the back of the clasp of the opal collar.
“Zaranegra 1770,” he read aloud. “Zaranegra is a Venetian name.”
There was an inscription so minute that to the unaided eye it was
invisible; through the glass it was possible to read it. It was this:
NINA DELLA LUCEDIA
CONTESSA ZARANEGRA
_Capo d Anno_
1770.
[Illustration: “Lend me your glass,” said the younger man. The glass
was of strong magnifying power; when it was handed to him he looked
through it at some little marks on the back of the clasp of the opal
collar.]
“Zaranegra!” repeated the younger man. “That is a Venetian name.
Lucedia is a name of the Marches of Ancona. There is a Ca’
Zaranegra on the Grand Canal. It is next to the Loredàn. You admired
its Moorish windows on the second storey this morning. Carlo
Zaranegra died young; he left a widow who is only twenty now. She
is a daughter of the Duke of Monfalcone; a family of the Trentino,
but pure Italians in blood. Their place is in the mountains above
Gorizia. It must be she who owns this necklace, an heirloom probably.”
“Take it to her,” said the finder of it, with indifference. “I cede
you my rights.”
The younger laughed.
“Ah! who knows what they may become?”
“Whatever they may become they are yours. I do not appreciate that
kind of reward.”
“Really?” said the younger man. “If so I pity you!”
“Nay, I pity you,” said the elder.
The young man still stood with the opals in his hands; with a wisp
of grass he had cleared the sand in a measure off them; the pearly
softness and the roseate flame of the stones began to show here and
there; two alone of their number were missing.
“Come,” said his companion, with impatience. “Put that broken rubbish
in your pocket and let us go and see the Cathedral and S. Fosca, for
it will soon grow dark.”
They walked along the dyke of turf which traverses the isle, past the
low fruit trees and the humble cabins of the few peasants who dwell
there; the grass was long and full of ox-eyed daisies, and purple
loosestrife, and pink campion. They soon reached the green and quiet
place where the sacred buildings of S. Maria and S. Fosca, stand in
the solitude of field and sea.
They entered first of all the old church of S. Fosca. The younger man
went straight to the altar with uncovered head and knelt before it, a
soft and serious look upon his face as his lips moved.
The elder cast a glance, contemptuous and derisive, on him, and
turned to look at the five arcades, with their columns, so precious
to those who understand the laws of architecture.
He was learned in many things, and architecture and archæology
were the studies which were to him pastimes, in the rare hours of
recreation which he allowed himself.
“Have you prayed to find the mistress of the opals?” he said to the
younger man who, risen from his knees, approached him, a red light of
the late afternoon slanting in from an upper window in the apse and
falling on his bright hair and beautiful classic face.
The young man coloured.
“I prayed that the stones may bring us no evil,” he said, with
ingenuous simplicity. “Laugh as you will, a prayer can never do harm,
and you know opals are stones of sorrow.”
“I know you are a credulous child—a superstitious peasant—though you
are twenty-four years old and have royal and noble blood in your
veins.”
“If you had not saved my life I would throw you into the sea,”
replied the other, half in jest half in anger. “Leave my faiths
alone. Lead your own barren life as you choose, but do not cut down
flowers in the garden of others.”
“Life is truly a garden for you,” said the elder man, with a touch of
envy in the tone of his voice.
It was dusk in S. Fosca for the day was far advanced, and the sun was
setting without beyond the world of waters.
Two peasant women were saying their aves before low burning lamps.
The scent of the grass and the smell of the sea came in through the
open door. A cat walked noiselessly across the altar. As the church
was now so it had been a thousand years earlier.
“Does this place say nothing to you?” asked the younger man.
“Nothing,” replied the other. “What should it say?”
[Illustration: Decorative separator]