him, bound
him and handed him over to the justice of Padua,--where--for the
heinousness of the offense--the man was executed. So ended the first
conflict in which the renowned Carlo Zeno was engaged,--successfully--as
did most of his later battles.

Not long afterwards young Zeno returned to his studies at the
University, but here--as a lover of excitement--he fell into bad
company. Alas! he took to gambling, and frittered away all of his
ready money, so that he had to sell his books in order to play. The
profit from these was soon gone. He was bankrupt at the early age of
seventeen.

Ashamed to go home, the future sea rover disappeared from Padua and
joined a fighting band of mercenaries (paid soldiers) who were in the
employ of a wealthy Italian Prince. He was not heard of for full five
years. Thus, his relatives gave him up for dead, and, when--one
day--he suddenly stalked into the house of his parents, his brothers
and sisters set up a great shout of wonder and amazement. "Hurrah!"
cried they, "the dead has returned to his own. This is no ghost, for
he speaks our own native tongue. Carlo Zeno, you shall be given the
best that we have, for we believed that you had gone to another
world."

Pleased and overwhelmed with affection, young Carlo stayed for a time
with his family, and then--thinking that, as he had been trained for
the priesthood, he had best take charge of his canonry of Patras--he
went to Greece.

"Hah! my fine fellow," said the Governor, when he first saw him, "I
hear that you are fond of fighting. It is well. The Turks are very
troublesome, just now, and they need some stout Venetian blood to hold
them in check. You must assist us."

"I'll do my best," cried Zeno with spirit, and, he had not been there
a week before the Ottomans swooped down upon the city, bent upon its
demolition. The young Venetian sallied forth--with numerous fighting
men--to meet them, and, in the first clash of arms, received such a
gaping wound that he was given up for dead. In fact, when carried to
the city, he was considered to be without life, was stretched upon a
long settee, was clothed in a white sheet, and prepared for interment.
But in the early morning he suddenly opened his eyes, gazed
wonderingly at the white shroud which covered him, and cried, with no
ill humor,

"Not yet, my friends. Carlo Zeno will disappoint all your fondest
hopes. Once more I am of the world."

And, so saying, he scrambled to his feet,