But for this
false accusation, I might now have been one of the most thriving of my
craft in Venice."
"Father, we will pray for the soul of the Tiepolo."
"Is the senator dead?"
"So says a gorgeous tomb in the church of the Redentore."
"We must all die at last," whispered the old man, crossing himself.
"Doge as well as patrician--patrician as well as gondolier,--Jaco--"
"Father!" exclaimed the Bravo, so suddenly as to interrupt the coming
word; then kneeling by the pallet of the prisoner, he whispered in his
ear, "thou forgettest there is reason why thou should'st not call me by
that name. I have told thee often if thus called my visits must stop."
The prisoner looked bewildered, for the failing of nature rendered that
obscure which was once so evident to his mind. After gazing long at his
son, his eye wandered between him and the wall, and he smiled
childishly.
"Wilt thou look, good boy, if the spider is come back?"
Jacopo groaned, but he rose to comply.
"I do not see it, father; the season is not yet warm."
"Not warm! my veins feel heated to bursting. Thou forgettest this is the
attic, and that these are the leads, and then the sun--oh! the sun! The
illustrious senators do not bethink them of the pain of passing the
bleak winter below the canals, and the burning summers beneath hot
metal."
"They think of nothing but their power," murmured Jacopo--"that which is
wrongfully obtained, must be maintained by merciless injustice--but why
should we speak of this, father; hast thou all thy body needs?"
"Air--son, air!--give me of that air, which God has made for the meanest
living thing.
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