The yellow lamp flames were burning late in the cabinet of Girolamo Magagnati, who took less note of the difference between evening hours and those of early dawn since there was no longer in his household a beloved one to guard from weariness.  Nay, the night was rather the time in which he might forget himself and plunge more whole-heartedly into his schemes of work—­financial or creative.  For the world was surely on the eve of discoveries important to his art, and it would be well if he might secure them, before his working days should pass, for the Stabilimento Magagnati.

Piero Salin stood in the doorway as he glanced up from the drawings that littered his table—­the dark oak table which had seemed a centre of cheer to Girolamo, when, in this very chamber, his child had made a radiance for him in which the lines of his life shone large and satisfying.

Girolamo never seemed to remember that this son-in-law was a great man among the people; to him he was only Piero Salin, barcariol; the single token of the old man’s favor was that in his thought he no longer added the despicable word toso; and it was a proof that he was mellowing with the years, for Girolamo never forgot this unwelcome and dishonorable past, and Piero was always ill at ease in his presence.

“Messer Magagnati,” he began awkwardly, twirling his black cap in his hand rather after the fashion of a gondolier than of the Chief of the Nicolotti, “I must crave, by dawn of the morrow, the blessing of San Nicolo—­of holy memory.”

“Enter,” said Girolamo, with a reluctance not wholly concealed by his attempt at courtesy, for he felt the moments to be the more precious that the dawn was near; but the invocation of the sailor’s patron saint portended a journey.  “Verily, Piero, thy comings and goings have been, of late, so frequent that one learns the wisdom of not mourning over-much when thou dost crave an ave at the shrine of San Nicolo.  May he grant thee favoring breezes!  Thou art in favor with the Ten, they tell me.”

Piero shrugged his shoulders.  “Favor or disfavor,” he said, “it is but the turning of the head—­and both may lead to that place of unsought distinction between San Marco and San Teodoro, if the orders of their Excellencies bring not the end they sought.  But it matters little—­a candle flame is better blown out than dying spent.”

“And whither art thou bent on the morrow?”

“Nay, Messer Girolamo, that is not mine own secret.  But this word would I leave with thee; if, perchance, I return not before many days, seek me on the border-land—­at the point nearest Roman dominions.”  He had come close to the old merchant, and uttered the last words in a tone very low and full of meaning.

Girolamo started.  “On the border-land of Rome!” he echoed.  “This mission of thine is then weighty; and thou fearest——­”

“Nay, I fear naught,” said Piero haughtily.  “But the times are perilous; and later, if thou would’st seek me, thou hast the clew.  But of the mission, to which I am sworn in secrecy, let it not be known that I have so much as named it—­it would argue ill for me and thee.  And the clew is for thy using only.  Meanwhile, forget that I have spoken.  The Ave Maria will soon waken the fishers of Murano. Addio!”