own glass-house and was standing in the shadow
of his father's doorway, slowly fanning himself with his large cap
before he went upstairs, for it had been very hot in the sun. He did not
know Zuan Venier by sight, but there was no mistaking the Venetian's
high station, and he was surprised to see that the nobleman was
evidently on good terns with Zorzi.

CHAPTER XIV

Zorzi had not left the glass-house since he had been hurt, but he
foresaw that he might be obliged to leave the laboratory for an hour or
more, now that he was better. He could walk, with one crutch and a
stick, resting a little on the injured foot, and he felt sure that in a
few days he should be able to walk with the stick alone. He had the
certainty that he was lame for life, and now and then, when it was dusk
and he sat under the plane-tree, meditating upon the uncertain future,
he felt a keen pang at the thought that he might never again walk
without limping; for he had been light and agile, and very swift of foot
as a boy.

He fancied that Marietta would pity him, but not as she had pitied him
at first. There would be a little feeling of repulsion for the cripple,
mixed with her compassion for the man. It was true that, as matters were
going now, he might not see her often again, and he was quite sure that
he had no right to think of loving her. Zuan Venier's visit had recalled
very clearly the obligations by which he had solemnly bound himself, and
which he honestly meant to fulfil; and apart from them, when he tried to
reason about his love, he could make it seem absurd enough that he
should dream of winning Marietta for his wife.

But love itself does not argue. At first it is seen far off, like a
beautiful bird of rare plumage, among flowers, on a morning in spring;
it comes nearer, it is timid, it advances, it recedes, it poises on
swiftly beating wings, it soars out of sight, but suddenly it is nearer
than before; it changes shapes, and grows vast and terrible, till its
flight is like the rushing of the whirlwind; then all is calm again, and
in the stillness a sweet voice sings the chant of peace or the
melancholy dirge of an endless regret; it is no longer the dove, nor the
eagle, nor the storm that leaves ruin in its track--it is everything, it
is life, it is the world itself, for ever and time without end, for good
or evil, for such happiness as may pass all understanding, if God will,
and if not, for undying sorrow.

Zorzi had