The two men grasped hands and looked into each other’s eyes for a brief recording moment, having each touched that best in the other which was not shown to all men, and so begotten trust each in each.

“By the Holy Madonna and San Nicolo, I will not fail!” Antonio promised, and in a moment had seized his oar again and was springing forward on the bridge of his gondola, as if his thoughts were light and rhythmic as his motions.

They sped on with a few swift, silent strokes—­then, “Brondolo!” he cried brightly; but a sudden desperate steadying of resolution was felt in the fierce stroke which sent the gondola forward with a jerk.

The fishing-skiffs of Chioggia fluttered like gaudy butterflies before them, dipping their wings of orange and crimson and every conceivable sunset tint to catch the breeze; and the air was suddenly vibrant with sounds of traffic and busy life.  Men called to each other with song and jest from heavily laden barks, while they waited the hour of sailing; or lay at ease on the top of their wares, smoking luxurious draughts of content from their comrade pipes,—­lords of their craft, though their couch was but a pile of cabbages or market produce,—­exchanging some whimsical comment upon the affairs of busier neighbors which brimmed these frequent hours of dolce far niente with unflagging interest.

And there, among the lighter shipping, was the brig bound to the order of the gastaldo grande, with the yellow sails and device of the rising sun—­with the gobbo in orange doublet on the masthead for good luck, and the gobbo on the deck to make it sure.  Piero turned and looked for it, as they passed the lock.  And there too——­

“Corpo di San Marco!” ejaculated Antonio under his breath, for he stood higher than Piero upon the bridge of the gondola and facing forward.

There, full in sight, and riding proudly at anchor, the beautiful curves of her swan-like prows made cannon proof with plates of shining steel,—­and below, in lieu of figurehead to promise victory, those letters of dread omen, C.D.X.,—­with thirty oars-men from the arsenal of Venice, to ensure her speed, each ready at his oar-lock to wield his oar, with a band of marksmen trained to finest tempered arms to quell the resistance which no Venetian would dare offer with those letters on the prow; the gold and scarlet banner of San Marco, for good fortune, at her masthead; the wind swelling her impatient sail, as the curb but frets the steed—­the galley of the Ten was not waiting without a purpose!

The shock of the boats as they passed through the lock had roused the sleepers rudely, and Piero had time but for a swift glance of command to Antonio, bidding him escape, when a gondola bearing the ducal colors floated out from the sea of small waiting craft and saluted them courteously.  The dignified signor who addressed them wore the violet robe and stole of a secretary of the Doge, and his face was the face of that secretary in whose silken hand the gastaldo’s had lain prisoned when he took the oath of office!