ttle, for his father was for some
time Governor of Padua, and had won a great struggle against the
Turks, when the careening galleys of the Venetian Squadron grappled
blindly with the aggressive men of the Ottoman Empire. There were ten
children in the family and little Carlo was named after the Emperor
Charles IV, who sent a retainer to the baptism of the future seaman,
saying, "I wish the child well. He has a brave and noble father and I
trust that his future will be auspicious."

Little Carlo was destined for the Church, and, with a Latin eulogium
in his pocket (which his Venetian school-master had written out for
him) was sent to the court of the Pope at Avignon. The sweet-faced boy
was but seven years of age. He knelt before the prelate and his
retainers, reciting the piece of prose with such precision, grace, and
charm, that all were moved by his beauty, his memory, his spirit, and
his liveliness of person.

"You are indeed a noble youth," cried the Pope. "You shall come into
my household. There you shall receive an education and shall be a
canon of the cathedral of Patras, with a rich benefice."

But little Carlo did not remain. Although dressed like a mimic priest
and taught with great care, the hot blood of youth welled in his veins
and made him long for a life more active and more dangerous. So he
looked about for adventure so thoroughly that he was soon able to have
his first narrow escape, and a part in one of those many brawls which
were to come to him during his career of war and adventure.

Sent by his relations to the University of Padua, he was returning to
Venice from the country, one day, when a man leaped upon him as he
walked down a narrow road.

"Who are you?" cried Carlo fearfully.

But the fellow did not answer. Instead,--he struck him suddenly with
a stout cudgel--knocked him senseless on the turf, took all the
valuables which he had, and ran silently away into the gloom.

Little Carlo came to his senses after many hours, and, staggering
forward with weakened steps, reached Mestre, where kind friends
dressed his wounds.

"I shall catch this assailant," cried he, when he had revived. "He
shall rue the day that he ever touched the person of Carlo Zeno." And
forthwith he secured a number of bloodhounds with which to track the
cowardly ruffian of the highway.

Luck was with the future commander of the galleons and fighting men. He
ran the scurvy assailant to earth, like a fox. He captured