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.