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young lady, or of the death of her uncle!"
    "Thou wert thinking of thy Tunis-man, and hast forgotten. I must have
told thee how near the beautiful signora was to sharing the fate of the
gondola, and how the loss of the Roman marchese weighs, in addition, on
the soul of the padrone."
    "Santo Padre! That a Christian should die the death of a hunted dog by
the carelessness of a gondolier!"
    "It may have been lucky for the Ancona-man that it so fell out; for they
say the Roman was one of influence enough to make a senator cross the
Bridge of Sighs, at need."
    "The devil take all careless watermen, say I! And what became of the
awkward rogue?"
    "I tell thee he went outside the Lido that very hour, or—"
    "Pietrello?"
    "He was brought up by the oar of Giorgio, for both of us were active in
saving the cushions and other valuables."
    "Could'st thou do nothing for the poor Roman? Ill-luck may follow that
brig on account of his death!"
    "Ill-luck follow her, say I, till she lays her bones on some rock that
is harder than the heart of her padrone. As for the stranger, we could
do no more than offer up a prayer to San Teodoro, since he never rose
after the blow. But what has brought thee to Venice, caro mio? for thy
ill-fortune with the oranges, in the last voyage, caused thee to
denounce the place."
    The Calabrian laid a finger on one cheek, and drew the skin down in a
manner to give a droll expression to his dark, comic eye, while the
whole of his really fine Grecian face was charged with an expression of
coarse humor.
    "Look you, Gino—thy master sometimes calls for his gondola between
sunset and morning?"
    "An owl is not more wakeful than he has been of late. This head of mine
has not been on a pillow before the sun has come above the Lido, since
the snows melted from Monselice."
    "And when the sun of thy master's countenance sets in his own palazzo,
thou hastenest off to the bridge of the Rialto, among the jewellers and
butchers, to proclaim the manner in which he passed the night?"
    "Diamine! 'Twould be the last night I served the Duca di Sant' Agata,
were my tongue so limber! The gondolier and the confessor are the two
privy-councillors of a noble, Master Stefano, with this small
difference—that the last only knows what the sinner wishes to reveal,
while the first sometimes knows more. I can find a safer, if not a more
honest employment, than to be running about with my master's secrets in
the air."
    "And I am wiser than to let every Jew broker in San Marco, here, have a
peep into my charter-party."
    "Nay, old acquaintance, there is some difference between our
occupations, after all. A padrone of a felucca cannot, in justice, be
compared to the most confidential gondolier of a Neapolitan duke, who
has an unsettled right to be admitted to the Council of Three Hundred."
    "Just the difference between smooth water and rough—you ruffle the
surface of a canal with a lazy oar, while I run the channel of Piombino
in a mistral, shoot the Faro of Messina in a white squall, double Santa
Maria di Leuca in a breathing Levanter, and come skimming up the
Adriatic before a sirocco that is hot enough to cook my maccaroni, and
which sets the whole sea boiling worse than the caldrons of Scylla."
    "Hist!" eagerly interrupted the gondolier, who had indulged, with
Italian humor, in the controversy for preeminence, though without any
real feeling, "here comes one who may think, else, we shall have need of
his hand to settle the dispute—Eccolo!"
    The Calabrian recoiled apace, in silence, and stood regarding the
individual who had caused this hurried remark, with a gloomy but steady
air. The stranger moved slowly past. His years were under thirty, though
the calm gravity of his countenance imparted to it a character of more
mature age. The cheeks were bloodless, but they betrayed rather the
pallid hue of mental than of bodily disease. The perfect condition of
the physical man was sufficiently exhibited in the muscular fulness of a
body which,