There is a ripple o’er the dark canal—the reflexions of the colored lamps are all broken up and scattered. ’Tis a gondola, silent and sombre, which, in a little seething of water, stops just below the terrace stairs.
Then from it steps a woman all clothed in heavy black; a black mask on her face, a black fan in her hand. Nay, the very cross upon her neck is jet.
The gondola from which she has stepped glides silently away, and leaves her standing hesitatingly in the garden. Then she starts as she sees the sleeping face turned towards the moonlight.
She moves towards the sleeper, darkly, noiselessly, her shoulders drawn together; she is so desirous she may not be heard, that she might be about to murder him as he sleeps. At last, close to him, she bends over his sleeping face. Her hand is on his forehead. Lower and lower bends her head. Awake, awake! But there is no fear. She has but kissed him. A soft, noiseless kiss.
As she moves a few steps from him, her eyes still on his face, her arm is touched.
“Signora!”
“Thou, Gubetta!”
“I fear for thee. Venice may guard thy life, but she cannot save thee from insult.”
What does this mysterious woman think as her head droops? Truly she should be insulted, all breathing men and women, and small children even, abhor her name. Yet she was not born to such a fate. But the past, the past, who shall recall the past. And then the vision of an aged man, clad in a robe falling to the ground in heavy folds, comes before her, and she trembles. As she looks on the sleeper, she asks herself how long was it since she had slept so peacefully?
“Thou gazest upon the youth, Signora. Vainly have I sought to learn the reason of thy secret journey from Ferrara here to Venice—perhaps this youth.”