Just as the secret audiences of the Palazzo Gradenigo were ended, the great square of St. Mark began to lose a portion of its gaiety.  The cafes were now occupied by parties who had the means, and were in the humor, to put their indulgences to more substantial proof than the passing gibe or idle laugh; while those who were reluctantly compelled to turn their thoughts from the levities of the moment to the cares of the morrow, were departing in crowds to humble roofs and hard pillows.  There remained one of the latter class, however, who continued to occupy a spot near the junction of the two squares, as motionless as if his naked feet grew to the stone on which he stood.  It was Antonio.

The position of the fisherman brought the whole of his muscular form and bronzed features beneath the rays of the moon.  The dark, anxious, and stern eyes were fixed upon the mild orb, as if their owner sought to penetrate into another world, in quest of that peace which he had never known in this.  There was suffering in the expression of the weather-worn face; but it was the suffering of one whose native sensibilities had been a little deadened by too much familiarity with the lot of the feeble.  To one who considered life and humanity in any other than their familiar and vulgar aspects, he would have presented a touching picture of a noble nature, enduring with pride, blunted by habit; while to him, who regards the accidental dispositions of society as paramount laws, he might have presented the image of dogged turbulence and discontent, healthfully repressed by the hand of power.  A heavy sigh struggled from the chest of the old man, and, stroking down the few hairs which time had left him, he lifted his cap from the pavement, and prepared to move.

“Thou art late from thy bed, Antonio,” said a voice at his elbow.  “The triglie must be of good price, or of great plenty, that one of thy trade can spare time to air himself in the Piazza at this hour.  Thou hearest, the clock is telling the fifth hour of the night.”

The fisherman bent his head aside, and regarded the figure of his masked companion, for a moment, with indifference, betraying neither curiosity nor feeling at his address.

“Since thou knowest me,” he answered, “it is probable thou knowest that in quitting this place I shall go to an empty dwelling.  Since thou knowest me so well, thou should’st also know my wrongs.”

“Who hath injured thee, worthy fisherman, that thou speakest so boldly beneath the very windows of the Doge?”

“The state.”

“This is hardy language for the ear of St. Mark!  Were it too loudly spoken, yonder lion might growl.  Of what dost thou accuse the Republic?”

“Lead me to them that sent thee, and I will spare the trouble of a go-between.  I am ready to tell my wrongs to the Doge, on his throne; for what can one, poor and old as I, dread from their anger?”

“Thou believest me sent to betray thee?”