Chapter XXXI.

"On—on—
It Is our knell, or that of Venice.—On."

MARINO FALIERO.

Another morning called the Venetians to their affairs. Agents of the police had been active in preparing the public mind, and as the sun rose above the narrow sea, the squares began to fill. There were present the curious citizen in his, cloak and cap, bare-legged laborers in wondering awe, the circumspect Hebrew in his gaberdine and beard, masked gentlemen, and many an attentive stranger from among the thousands who still frequented that declining mart. It was rumored that an act of retributive justice was about to take place, for the peace of the town and the protection of the citizen. In short, curiosity, idleness, and revenge, with all the usual train of human feelings, had drawn together a multitude eager to witness the agonies of a fellow-creature.

The Dalmatians were drawn up near the sea, in a manner to inclose the two granite columns of the Piazzetta. Their grave and disciplined faces fronted inwards towards the African pillars, those well known landmarks of death. A few grim warriors of higher rank paced the flags before the troops, while a dense crowd filled the exterior space. By special favor more than a hundred fishermen were grouped within the armed men, witnesses that their class had revenge. Between the lofty pedestals of St. Theodore and the winged lion lay the block and the axe, the basket and the saw-dust; the usual accompaniments of justice in that day. By their side stood the executioner.

At length a movement in the living mass drew every eye towards the gate of the palace. A murmur arose, the multitude wavered, and a small body of the Sbirri came into view. Their steps were swift like the march of destiny. The Dalmatians opened to receive these ministers of fate into their bosom, and closing their ranks again, appeared to preclude the world with its hopes from the condemned. On reaching the block between the columns the Sbirri fell off in files, waiting at a little distance, while Jacopo was left before the engines of death attended by his ghostly counsellor, the Carmelite. The action left them open to the gaze of the throng.

Father Anselmo was in the usual attire of a bare-footed friar of his order. The cowl of the holy man was thrown back, exposing his mortified lineaments and his self-examining eye to those around. The expression of his countenance was that of bewildered uncertainty, relieved by frequent but fitful glimmerings of hope. Though his lips were constant in prayer, his looks wandered, by an irrepressible impulse, from one window of the Doge's palace to another. He took his station near the condemned, however, and thrice crossed himself fervently.

Jacopo had tranquilly placed his person before the block. His head was bare, his cheek colorless, his throat and neck uncovered from the shoulders, his body in its linen, and the rest of his form was clad in the ordinary dress of a gondolier. He kneeled with his face bowed to the block, repeated a prayer, and rising he faced the multitude with dignity and composure. As his eye moved slowly over the array of human countenances by which he was environed, a hectic glowed on his features, for not one of them all betrayed sympathy in his sufferings. His breast heaved, and those nearest to his person thought the self-command of the miserable man was about to fail him. The result disappointed expectation. There was a shudder, and the limbs settled into repose.

"Thou hast looked in vain among the multitude for a friendly eye?" said the Carmelite, whose attention had been drawn to the convulsive movement.

"None here have pity for an assassin."

"Remember thy Redeemer, son. He suffered ignominy and death for a race that denied his Godhead, and derided his sorrows."

Jacopo crossed himself, and bowed his head in reverence.

"Hast thou more prayers to repeat, father?" demanded the chief of the Sbirri; he who was particularly charged with the duty of the hour." Though the illustrious councils are so sure in justice, they are merciful to the souls of sinners."

"Are thy orders peremptory?" asked the monk, unconsciously fixing his eye again on the windows of the palace. "Is it certain that the prisoner is to die?"

The officer smiled at the simplicity of the question, but with the apathy of one too much familiarized with human suffering to admit of compassion.

"Do any doubt it?" he rejoined. "It is the lot of man, reverend monk; and more especially is it the lot of those on whom the judgment of St. Mark has alighted. It were better that your penitent looked to his soul."

"Surely thou hast thy private and express commands! They have named a minute when this bloody work is to be performed?"

"Holy Carmelite, I have. The time will not be weary, and you will do well to make the most of it, unless you have faith already in the prisoner's condition."

As he spoke, the officer threw a glance at the dial of the square, and walked coolly away. The action left the priest and the prisoner again alone between the columns. It was evident that the former could not yet believe in the reality of the execution.

"Hast thou no hope, Jacopo?" he asked.

"Carmelite, in my God.

"They cannot commit this wrong! I shrived Antonio—I witnessed his fate, and the Prince knows it!"

"What is a Prince and his justice, where the selfishness of a few rules! Father, thou art new in the Senate's service."

"I shall not presume to say that God will blast those who do this deed, for we cannot trace the mysteries of his wisdom. This life and all this world can offer, are but specks in his omniscient eye, and what to us seems evil may be pregnant with good.—Hast thou faith in thy Redeemer, Jacopo?"

The prisoner laid his hand upon his heart and smiled, with the calm assurance that none but those who are thus sustained can feel.

"We will again pray, my son."

The Carmelite and Jacopo kneeled side by side, the latter bowing his head to the block, while the monk uttered a final appeal to the mercy of the Deity. The former arose, but the latter continued in the suppliant attitude. The monk was so full of holy thoughts that, forgetting his former wishes, he was nearly content the prisoner should pass into the fruition of that hope which elevated his own mind. The officer and executioner drew near, the former touching the arm of Father Anselmo, and pointing towards the distant dial.

"The moment is near," he whispered, more from habit than in any tenderness to the prisoner.

The Carmelite turned instinctively towards the palace, forgetting in the sudden impulse all but his sense of earthly justice. There were forms at the windows, and he fancied a signal to stay the impending blow was about to be given.

"Hold!" he exclaimed. "For the love of Maria of most pure memory, be not too hasty!"

The exclamation was repeated by a shrill female voice, and then Gelsomina, eluding every effort to arrest her, rushed through the Dalmatians, and reached the group between the granite columns. Wonder and curiosity agitated the multitude, and a deep murmur ran through the square.

"'Tis a maniac!" cried one.

"'Tis a victim of his arts!" said another, for when men have a reputation for any particular vice, the world seldom fails to attribute all the rest.

Gelsomina seized the bonds of Jacopo, and endeavored frantically to release his arms.

"I had hoped thou would'st have been spared this sight, poor Gessina!" said the condemned.

"Be not alarmed!" she answered, gasping for breath. "They do it in mockery; 't is one of their wiles to mislead—but they cannot—no, they dare not harm a hair of thy head, Carlo!"

"Dearest Gelsomina!"

"Nay, do not hold me; I will speak to the citizens, and tell them all. They are angry now, but when they know the truth they will love thee, Carlo, as I do."

"Bless thee—bless thee!—I would thou hadst not come."

"Fear not for me! I am little used to such a crowd, but thou wilt see that I shall dare to speak them fair, and to make known the truth boldly. I want but breath."

"Dearest! Thou hast a mother—a father to share thy tenderness. Duty to them will make thee happy!"

"Now I can speak, and thou shalt see how I will vindicate thy name."

She arose from the arms of her lover, who, notwithstanding his bonds, released his hold of her slight form with a reluctance greater than that with which he parted with life. The struggle in the mind of Jacopo seemed over. He bowed his head passively to the block, before which he was kneeling; and it is probable, by the manner in which his hands were clasped, that he prayed for her who left him. Not so Gelsomina. Parting her hair over her spotless forehead with both hands, she advanced towards the fishermen, who were familiar to her eye by their red caps and bare limbs. Her smile was like that which the imagination would bestow on the blessed, in their intercourse of love.

"Venetians!" she said, "I cannot blame you; ye are here to witness the death of one whom ye believe unfit to live----"

"The murderer of old Antonio!" muttered several of the group.

"Aye, even the murderer of that aged and excellent man. But when you hear the truth, when you come to know that he whom you have believed an assassin, was a pious child, a faithful servant of the Republic, a gentle gondolier, and a true heart, you will change your bloody purpose for a wish for justice."

A common murmur drowned her voice, which was so trembling and low as to need deep stillness to render the words audible. The Carmelite had advanced to her side, and he motioned earnestly for silence.

"Hear her, men of the Lagunes!" he said; "she utters holy truth."

"This reverend and pious monk, with Heaven, is my witness. When you shall know Carlo better, and have heard his tale, ye will be the first to cry out for his release. I tell you this, that when the Doge shall appear at yon window and make the signal of mercy, you need not be angry, and believe that your class has been wronged. Poor Carlo----"

"The girl raves!" interrupted the moody fishermen. "Here is no Carlo, but Jacopo Frontoni, a common bravo."

Gelsomina smiled, in the security of the innocent, and regaining her breath, which nervous agitation still disturbed, she resumed—

"Carlo or Jacopo—Jacopo or Carlo—it matters little."

"Ha! There is a sign from the palace!" shouted the Carmelite, stretching both his arms in that direction, as if to grasp a boon. The clarions sounded, and another wave stirred the multitude. Gelsomina uttered a cry of delight, and turned to throw herself upon the bosom of the reprieved. The axe glittered before her eyes, and the head of Jacopo rolled upon the stones, as if to meet her. A general movement in the living mass denoted the end.

The Dalmatians wheeled into column, the Sbirri pushed aside the throng on their way to their haunts; the water of the bay was dashed upon the flags; the clotted saw-dust was gathered; the head and trunk, block, basket, axe, and executioner disappeared, and the crowd circulated around the fatal spot.

During this horrible and brief moment neither Father Anselmo nor Gelsomina moved. All was over, and still the entire scene appeared to be delusion.

"Take away this maniac!" said an officer of the police, pointing to Gelsomina as he spoke.

He was obeyed with Venetian readiness, but his words proved prophetic before his servitors had quitted the square. The Carmelite scarce breathed. He gazed at the moving multitude, at the windows of the palace, and at the sun which shone so gloriously in the heavens.

"Thou art lost in this crowd!" whispered one at his elbow. "Reverend Carmelite, you will do well to follow me."

The monk was too much subdued to hesitate. His conductor led him by many secret ways to a quay, where he instantly embarked in a gondola for the main. Before the sun reached the meridian the thoughtful and trembling monk was on his journey towards the States of the Church, and ere long he became established in the castle of Sant' Agata.

At the usual hour the sun fell behind the mountains of the Tyrol, and the moon reappeared above the Lido. The narrow streets of Venice again poured out their thousands upon the squares. The mild light fell athwart the quaint architecture and the giddy tower, throwing a deceptive glory on the city of islands.

The porticoes became brilliant with lamps, the gay laughed, the reckless trifled, the masker pursued his hidden purpose, the cantatrice and the grotesque acted their parts, and the million existed in that vacant enjoyment which distinguishes the pleasures of the thoughtless and the idle. Each lived for himself, while the state of Venice held its vicious sway, corrupting alike the ruler and the ruled, by its mockery of those sacred principles which are alone founded in truth and natural justice.