The bier was rich in gilding and
carving, another melancholy evidence of the lingering wishes and false
direction of human vanity.
Next to this characteristic equipage of the dead walked a lad, whose
brown cheek, half-naked body, and dark, roving eye, announced the
grandson of the fisherman. Venice knew when to yield gracefully, and the
boy was liberated unconditionally from the galleys, in pity, as it was
whispered, for the untimely fate of his parent. There was the aspiring
look, the dauntless spirit, and the rigid honesty of Antonio, in the
bearing of the lad; but these qualities were now smothered by a natural
grief; and, as in the case of him whose funeral escort he followed,
something obscured by the rude chances of his lot. From time to time
the bosom of the generous boy heaved, as they marched along the quay,
taking the route of the arsenal; and there were moments in which his
lips quivered, grief threatening to overcome his manhood.
Still not a tear wetted his cheek, until the body disappeared from his
view. Then nature triumphed, and straying from out the circle, he took a
seat apart and wept, as one of his years and simplicity would be apt to
weep, at finding himself a solitary wanderer in the wilderness of the
world.
Thus terminated the incident of Antonio Vecchio, the fisherman, whose
name soon ceased to be mentioned in that city of mysteries, except on
the Lagunes, where the men of his craft long vaunted his merit with the
net, and the manner in which he bore away the prize from the best oars
of Venice.
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