alyzed, particularly as
another river's mouth, some two miles southward, was also blockaded.
Smiles of satisfaction shone upon the faces of the outraged Venetians.

Carlo Zeno was hurrying up with a strong fleet manned by veteran
seamen, but the now victorious followers of Pisani wished to return to
Venice.

"It is the Christmas season," cried many. "We have fought like lions.
We have shut up our enemy. We have averted the extreme danger. Let us
return to our wives and our children!"

"You cannot go," said Pisani, sternly. "You are the entire male
population of Venice. Without you the great expedition will come to
naught, and all of our toil will have been thrown away. Only be calm.
Carlo Zeno will soon be here, and we can then take Chioggia!"

Alas! Like Columbus, he saw himself upon the verge of losing the
result of all his labor for lack of confidence in him upon the part of
his men. He could not keep them by force, so wearily and anxiously he
scanned the horizon for signs of an approaching sail.

The days went slowly by for the lion-hearted Pisani. Carlo Zeno did
not come. Day after day the valiant leader fearfully looked for the
white-winged canvas of a Venetian galleon, but none came to view. On
the thirtieth day of December his men were very mutinous.

"We will seize the ships and return to-morrow to Venice," cried
several. "We have had enough of war. Our wives and daughters cry to us
to return."

Pisani was desperate.

"If Carlo Zeno does not come in forty-eight hours, the fleet may
return to Lido," said he. "Meanwhile, keep your guns shooting at the
enemy. We must make these Genoese feel that we shall soon attack in
force."

But Pisani's heart was leaden. Where, yes, where was Zeno? New Year's
Day came, and, by his promise, he must let the Venetians go. What did
this mean for him? It meant the fall of Venice, the end of the
Republic, the destruction of the population with all that they
possessed. He--their idol, their leader for ten days--could no longer
lead, for the Venetians could not bear a little cold and hardship for
his sake. Sad--yes, sad, indeed--was the face of the stout seaman as
he gave one last despairing glance at the horizon.

Ha! What was that? A thin, white mark against the distant blue! It
grew larger and clearer. It was the sail of a galley. Another, and
another, and another hove in sight,--eighteen in all, and driving
along swiftly before a heavy wind. But, were they hostile, or