Could I--" the
Bravo paused and looked doubtfully again at his companion.
"Say on, Jacopo."
"I have not dared to trust my secrets even to the confessional, Signore,
and can I be so bold as to offer them to you."
"Truly, it is a strange behest!"
"Signore, it is. You are noble, I am of humble blood. Your ancestors
were senators and Doges of Venice, while mine have been, since the
fishermen first built their huts in the Lagunes, laborers on the canals,
and rowers of gondolas. You are powerful, and rich, and courted; while I
am denounced, and in secret, I fear, condemned. In short, you are Don
Camillo Monforte, and I am Jacopo Frontoni!"
Don Camillo was touched, for the Bravo spoke without bitterness, and in
deep sorrow.
"I would thou wert at the confessional, poor Jacopo!" he said; "I am
little able to give ease to such a burden."
"Signore, I have lived too long shut out from the good wishes of my
fellows, and I can bear with it no longer. The accursed Senate may cut
me off without warning, and then who will stop to look at my grave!
Signore, I must speak or die!"
"Thy case is piteous, Jacopo! Thou hast need of ghostly counsel."
"Here is no priest, Signore, and I carry a weight past bearing. The only
man who has shown interest in me, for three long and dreadful years, is
gone!"
"But he will return, poor Jacopo."
"Signore, he will never return. He is with the fishes of the Lagunes.
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