ach him either in
taste or skill. Old Beroviero had told him so within the last few
months, and he felt that it was true.

He would have been neither a natural man nor a born artist if he had
refused to sell the beaker, out of an exaggerated scruple. But the
transaction had shown him that his only chance of success for the future
lay in frankly telling old Beroviero what he had done in his absence,
while reserving his secret for himself. The master was proud of him as
his pupil, and sincerely attached to him as a man, and would certainly
not try to force him into explaining how the glass was made. Besides,
the glass itself was there, easily distinguished from any other, and
Zorzi could neither hide it nor throw it away.

Giovanni went out upon the footway, and as he passed, Pasquale thought
he had never seen him so cheerful. The sour look had gone out of his
face, and he was actually smiling to himself. With such a man it would
hardly have been possible to attribute his pleased expression to the
satisfaction he felt in having bought Zorzi's beaker. He had never
before, in his whole life, parted with a piece of gold without a little
pang of regret; but he had felt the most keen and genuine pleasure just
now, when Zorzi had at last accepted the coin.

Pasquale watched him cross the wooden bridge and go into his father's
house opposite. Then the old porter shut the door and went back to the
laboratory, walking slowly with his ugly head bent a little, as if in
deep thought. Zorzi had already resumed his occupation and had a lump of
hot glass swinging on his blow-pipe, his crutch being under his right
arm.

"Half a rainbow to windward," observed the old sailor. "There will be a
squall before long."

"What do you mean?" asked Zorzi.

"If you had seen the Signor Giovanni smile, as he went out, you would
know what I mean," answered Pasquale. "In our seas, when we see the
stump of a rainbow low down in the clouds, we say it is the eye of the
wind, looking out for us, and I can tell you that the wind is never long
in coming!"

"Did you say anything to make him smile?" asked Zorzi, going on with his
work.

"I am not a mountebank," growled the porter. "I am not a strolling
player at the door of his booth at a fair, cracking jokes with those who
pass! But perhaps it was you who said something amusing to him, just
before he left? Who knows? I always took you for a grave young man. It
seems that I was mistaken. You make jok