Palazzo Pignaver then stood.

But that was a matter of speculation, whereas the emerald ring was a
matter of fact, and could be converted into a number of things which the
two adventurous gentlemen very much wanted just then. Their vow of
economy now no longer bade them cross the bridge and return to their
wretched lodging and frugal supper. The ring would pay for many suppers,
and for good clothes too. They did not even exchange a word as they
turned in the direction of the Rialto with a light step, and they felt
that delightful sensation which fills the being of a man who loves
eating at the moment when brutal hunger, that has expected only prison
fare, turns into keen appetite at the sudden vision of boundless good
things to eat in half an hour.

Gambardella's melancholy face relaxed in the dark, and the lines that
had before turned down now all turned upwards, except those of his long
hooked nose; and the formidable beak seemed to stand sentinel over his
thin lips, so that no good thing should enter between them on the way to
his stomach without sending up its toll of rich savour to his nostrils.

Trombin's small pursed-up mouth also widened to a set smile, and he
softly hummed snatches from the beautiful air Alessandro Stradella had
sung during the Benediction service. It was a mere thread of a squeak of
a falsetto voice, but it had at least the merit of being perfectly in
tune, and his musical memory was faultless.

'You are a great man,' said Gambardella thoughtfully, when they had
walked some distance and were nearing their destination.

'You flatter me!' laughed Trombin. 'What is easier than to guess that a
Dominican monk with a small white hand and an emerald ring may be a lady
in disguise? Besides, my dear friend, with your exquisite sense of all
that is feminine, you must surely have noticed her walk as she came up
to the bridge. I am not a judge of women myself, but as soon as I saw
the monk walking, I was sure of the truth.'

'I did not see her coming, but she has a delicious voice,' answered
Gambardella thoughtfully. 'I wish I had seen her face.'

'Perhaps you may, some day. Here we are.'

They stopped before a low arched door not fifty yards from the Rialto. A
large dry bush, sticking out of a narrow grated window beside the
forbidding entrance, showed that wine was sold within. The faint yellow
light from the lamp of a shrine, built in the wall on the opposite side
of the street, just overcame