n a dozen hours
or so two men must bid the world farewell."

"Ay," answered Dick, who alone seemed untouched by the melancholy of
that night. "Here will die the knave with three names and the big fool
of a half-bred Swiss, and descend to greet their ancestors in a place
that is even hotter than this Venice, with but a sorry tale to tell
them. By St. George! I wish it were nine of the clock to-morrow."

"Brag not, Dick," said Hugh with a sad smile, "for war is an uncertain
game, and who knows which of us will be talking with his ancestors and
praying the mercy of his Maker by this time to-morrow night?"

Then, having learned all they could, they walked across the ground to
the quay that bordered it on the seaward side. Here, as they guessed
from the stone pillars to which ships were made fast, was one of the
harbours of Venice, although as it happened none lay at that quay this
night. Yet, as they looked they saw one coming in, watched curiously by
groups of men gathered on the wall.

"Never knew I vessel make harbour in such a fashion," exclaimed Dick
presently. "See! she sails stern first."

Hugh studied her and saw that she was a great, decked galley of many
oars, such as the Venetians used in trading to the East, high-bowed and
pooped. But the strange thing was that none worked these oars, which,
although they were lashed, swung to and fro aimlessly, some yet whole
and some with their blades broken off and their shafts bundles of jagged
splinters. Certain sails were still set on the ship's mast, in tatters
for the most part, though a few remained sound, and it was by these that
she moved, for with the moonrise a faint wind had sprung up. Lastly, she
showed no light at peak or poop, and no sound of officer's command or of
boatswain's whistle came from her deck. Only slowly and yet as though of
set purpose she drifted in toward the quay.

Those who watched her, sailors such as ever linger about harbours
seeking their bread from the waters, though among these were mingled
people from the town who had come to this open place to escape the heat,
began to talk together affrightedly, but always in the dread whisper
that was the voice of this fearful knight. Yes, even the hoarse-throated
sailormen whispered like a dying woman.

"She's no ship," said one, "she's the wraith of a ship. When I was a lad
I saw such a craft in the Indian seas, and afterward we foundered, and I
and the cook's mate alone were saved."

"Psha