her turn, with a harmonious and powerful voice, a strange and
irregular song: 'Dance, laugh, sing, gay children of Venice! For you the
winter has no frosts, the night no shadows, life no cares. You are the
happy ones of the world, and Venice is the queen of nations. Who says
No? Take care: eyes see, ears hear, tongues speak. Fear the Council of
Ten if you are not good citizens. Good citizens dance, laugh and sing,
but do not speak. Dance, laugh, sing, gay children of Venice!--Venice,
only city not created by the hand, but by the mind, of man! thou who
seemst made to serve as the passing dwelling of the souls of the just,
placed as a step for them from earth to heaven; walls which fairies
inhabited, and which a magic breath still animates; aerial colonnades
which tremble in the mist; light spires which one confounds with the
floating masts of ships; arcades which seem to contain a thousand voices
to answer each passing voice; ye myriads of angels and saints, who seem
to bound upon the cupolas and move your bronze and marble wings when the
breeze blows upon your damp brows; city which liest not, like others, on
a dark and filthy soil, but which floatest, like a troop of swans, upon
the waves,--rejoice, rejoice, rejoice! A new destiny is opening for you
as beautiful as the first! The black eagle floats over the lion of St.
Mark's, and Teutonic feet waltz in the palaces of the doges. Be silent,
harmony of the night! Die, insensate noises of the ball! Be no more
heard, holy song of the fishermen! Cease to murmur, voice of the
Adriatic! Pale lamp of the Madonna! hide thyself for ever, silver queen
of the night! There are no more Venetians in Venice. Do we dream? are we
at a fete? Yes, yes: let us dance, let us laugh, let us sing! It is the
hour when Faliero's shade descends slowly the staircase of the Giants,
and seats himself, immovable, upon the lowest step. Let us dance, let
us laugh, let us sing, for presently the voice of the clock will say,
Midnight! and the chorus of the dead will come to cry in our ears,
Servitude! servitude!'

"With these words she let fall the guitar, which gave forth a funereal
sound on striking against the marble floor. Every one listened for the
twelve strokes in a horrible silence. Then the master of the palace
advanced toward the unknown with an air half terrified, half angry.
'Madame,' said he in a troubled voice, 'who has done me the honor to
bring you to my house?'

"'I,' cried Franz, adva