As he passed slowly along the gloomy arches of the Broglio,
his eye sought the person of Don Camillo Monforte. They met at the angle
of the little square, and exchanging secret signs, the Bravo moved on
unnoticed.
Hundreds of boats lay at the foot of the Piazzetta. Among these Jacopo
sought his own gondola, which he extricated from the floating mass, and
urged into the stream. A few sweeps of the oar, and he lay at the side
of La Bella Sorrentina. The padrone paced the deck, enjoying the cool of
the evening with Italian indolence, while his people, grouped on the
forecastle, sang, or rather chanted, a song of those seas. The greetings
were blunt and brief, as is usual among men of that class. But the
padrone appeared to expect the visit, for he led his guest far from the
ears of his crew, to the other extremity of the felucca.
"Hast thou aught in particular, good Roderigo?" demanded the mariner,
who knew the Bravo by a sign, and yet who only knew him by that
fictitious name. "Thou seest we have not passed the time idly, though
yesterday was a festa."
"Art thou ready for the gulf?"
"For the Levant, or the pillars of Hercules, as shall please the Senate.
We have got our yard aloft since the sun went behind the mountains, and
though we may seem careless of delay, an hour's notice will fit us for
the outside of the Lido."
"Then take the notice."
"Master Roderigo, you bring your news to an overstocked market.
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