had beheld
the loveliest of the bright and beautiful angels. But according to
Venetian habits, in the midst of the wildest outbreaks of their frantic
admiration, here and there were heard all sorts of satiric phrases and
rhymes--and coarse enough too--aimed at old Falieri and his young wife.
Falieri, however, appeared not to notice them, but strode along as
pathetically as possible at Annunciata's side, smirking and smiling all
over his face, and free on this occasion from all jealousy, although he
must have seen the glances full of burning passion which were directed
upon his beautiful lady from all sides. Arrived before the principal
entrance to the Palace, the guards had some difficulty in driving back
the crowd, so that the Doge and Dogess might go in; but here and there
were still standing isolated knots of better-dressed citizens, who
could not very well be refused entrance into even the inner quadrangle
of the Palace. Now it happened just at the moment that the Dogess
entered the quadrangle, that a young man, who with a few others stood
under the portico, fell down suddenly upon the hard marble floor, as if
dead, with the loud scream, "O good God! good God!" The people ran
together from every side and surrounded the dead man, so that the
Dogess could not see him; yet, as the young man fell, she felt as if a
red-hot knife were suddenly thrust into her heart; she grew pale; she
reeled, and was only prevented from fainting by the smelling-bottles of
the ladies who hastened to her assistance. Old Falieri, greatly alarmed
and put out by the accident, wished the young man and his fit anywhere;
and he carried his Annunciata, who hung her pretty head on her bosom
and closed her eyes like a sick dove, himself up the steps into her own
apartments in the interior of the Palace, although it was very hard
work for him to do so.

Meanwhile the people, who had increased to crowds in the inner
quadrangle, had been spectators of a remarkable scene. They were about
to lift up the young man, whom they took to be quite dead, and carry
him away, when an ugly old beggar-woman, all in rags, came limping up
with a loud wail of grief; and punching their sides and ribs with her
sharp elbows she made a way for herself through the thick of the crowd.
When she at length saw the senseless youth, she cried, "Let him be,
fools; you stupid people, let him be; he is not dead." Then she
squatted down beside him; and taking his head in her lap she