s not yet half over. Hidden in the bow of the
little boat there lay his provision for the day, half a loaf of bread, a
thick slice of cheese and two onions, with an earthen bottle of water.
With these supplies the old sailor knew that he could roam the canals of
Venice for twenty-four hours if he chose, and he also had some money in
case it should seem wise to ply an acquaintance with a little strong
wine in order to promote conversation.

The morning was sultry and a light haze hung over the islands at
sunrise, which is by no means usual. Pasquale sniffed the air as he
rowed himself through the narrow canals. There was a mingled smell of
stagnant salt water, cabbage stalks, water-melons and wood smoke long
unfamiliar to him, and reminding him pleasantly of his childhood.
Wherever a bit of stone pier ran along by an open space, scores of
olive-skinned boys were bathing, and as he passed they yelled at him and
splashed him. Many a time he had done the same, long ago, and had
sometimes got a sharp knock from the blade of an oar for his pains.

The high walls made brown shadows, that struck across the greenish
water, shivering away to long streaks of broken light and shade, and
trying to dance and rock themselves together for a moment before a
passing boat disturbed them again. In the shade boats were moored, laden
with fresh vegetables, and with jars of milk brought in from the islands
and the mainland before dawn. From open windows, here and there,
red-haired women with dark eyes looked down idly, and breathed the
morning air for a few minutes before beginning their household work. The
bells of Saint John and Saint Paul were ringing to low mass, and a few
old women with black shawls over their heads, and wooden clogs on their
feet, made a faint clattering as they straggled to the door.

It was long since Pasquale had been in Venice. He could not remember
exactly how many years had passed, but the city had changed little, and
still after many centuries there is but little and slow change. The ways
and turnings were as familiar to him as ever, and would have been
unforgotten if he had never taken the trouble to cross the lagoon again,
to his dying day. The soft sounds, the violent colours, the splendid
gloom of deep-arched halls that went straight from the great open door
at the water's edge to the shadowy heart of the palace within; the
boatmen polishing the metal work of their gondolas with brick dust and
olive oil; th