his own power to
withstand them. When he appeared, therefore, leaning on the arm of a
high officer of the papal embassy, and with an eye that spoke assurance
in himself, he was greeted, as usual, by all who knew him, as was due to
his rank and expectations. Still Don Camillo walked among the patricians
of the Republic with novel sensations. More than once he thought he
detected, in the wandering glances of those with whom he conversed,
signs of their knowledge of his frustrated attempt; and more than once,
when he least suspected such scrutiny, his countenance was watched, as
if the observer sought some evidence of his future intentions. Beyond
this none might have discovered that an heiress of so much importance
had been so near being lost to the state, or, on the other hand, that a
bridegroom had been robbed of his bride. Habitual art, on the part of
the state, and resolute but wary intention, on the part of the young
noble, concealed all else from observation.

In this manner the day passed, not a tongue in Venice, beyond those
which whispered in secret, making any allusion to the incidents of our
tale.

Just as the sun was setting a gondola swept slowly up to the water-gate
of the ducal palace. The gondolier landed, fastened his boat in the
usual manner to the stepping-stones, and entered the court. He wore a
mask, for the hour of disguise had come, and his attire was so like the
ordinary fashion of men of his class, as to defeat recognition by its
simplicity. Glancing an eye about him, he entered the building by a
private door.

The edifice in which the Doges of Venice dwelt still stands a gloomy
monument of the policy of the Republic, furnishing evidence, in itself,
of the specious character of the prince whom it held. It is built around
a vast but gloomy court, as is usual with nearly all of the principal
edifices of Europe. One of its fronts forms a side of the piazzetta so
often mentioned, and another lines the quay next the port. The
architecture of these two exterior faces of the palace renders the
structure remarkable. A low portico, which forms the Broglio, sustains
a row of massive oriental windows, and above these again lies a pile of
masonry, slightly relieved by apertures, which reverses the ordinary
uses of the art. A third front is nearly concealed by the cathedral of
St. Mark, and the fourth is washed by its canal. The public prison of
the city forms the other side of this canal, eloquently procla