Tony, who was not averse from reading when nothing better offered, had perused the “Merchant of Venice” and Mr. Otway’s fine tragedy; but though these pieces had given him a notion that the social usages of Venice differed from those at home, he was unprepared for the surprising appearance and manners of the great people his friend named to him.  The gravest Senators of the Republic went in prodigious striped trousers, short cloaks and feathered hats.  One nobleman wore a ruff and doctor’s gown, another a black velvet tunic slashed with rose-colour; while the President of the dreaded Council of Ten was a terrible strutting fellow with a rapier-like nose, a buff leather jerkin and a trailing scarlet cloak that the crowd was careful not to step on.

It was all vastly diverting, and Tony would gladly have gone on forever; but he had given his word to the captain to be at the landing-place at sunset, and here was dusk already creeping over the skies!  Tony was a man of honour; and having pressed on the Count a handsome damascened dagger selected from one of the goldsmiths’ shops in a narrow street lined with such wares, he insisted on turning his face toward the Hepzibah’s gig.  The Count yielded reluctantly; but as they came out again on the square they were caught in a great throng pouring toward the doors of the cathedral.

“They go to Benediction,” said the Count.  “A beautiful sight, with many lights and flowers.  It is a pity you cannot take a peep at it.”

Tony thought so too, and in another minute a legless beggar had pulled back the leathern flap of the cathedral door, and they stood in a haze of gold and perfume that seemed to rise and fall on the mighty undulations of the organ.  Here the press was as thick as without; and as Tony flattened himself against a pillar, he heard a pretty voice at his elbow:—­“Oh, sir, oh, sir, your sword!”

He turned at sound of the broken English, and saw a girl who matched the voice trying to disengage her dress from the tip of his scabbard.  She wore one of the voluminous black hoods which the Venetian ladies affected, and under its projecting eaves her face spied out at him as sweet as a nesting bird.

In the dusk their hands met over the scabbard, and as she freed herself a shred of her lace flounce clung to Tony’s enchanted fingers.  Looking after her, he saw she was on the arm of a pompous-looking graybeard in a long black gown and scarlet stockings, who, on perceiving the exchange of glances between the young people, drew the lady away with a threatening look.

The Count met Tony’s eye with a smile.  “One of our Venetian beauties,” said he; “the lovely Polixena Cador.  She is thought to have the finest eyes in Venice.”

“She spoke English,” stammered Tony.

“Oh—­ah—­precisely:  she learned the language at the Court of Saint
James’s, where her father, the Senator, was formerly accredited as
Ambassador.  She played as an infant with the royal princes of
England.”