By
their side stood the executioner.
At length a movement in the living mass drew every eye towards the gate
of the palace. A murmur arose, the multitude wavered, and a small body
of the Sbirri came into view. Their steps were swift like the march of
destiny. The Dalmatians opened to receive these ministers of fate into
their bosom, and closing their ranks again, appeared to preclude the
world with its hopes from the condemned. On reaching the block between
the columns the Sbirri fell off in files, waiting at a little distance,
while Jacopo was left before the engines of death attended by his
ghostly counsellor, the Carmelite. The action left them open to the gaze
of the throng.
Father Anselmo was in the usual attire of a bare-footed friar of his
order. The cowl of the holy man was thrown back, exposing his mortified
lineaments and his self-examining eye to those around. The expression of
his countenance was that of bewildered uncertainty, relieved by frequent
but fitful glimmerings of hope. Though his lips were constant in prayer,
his looks wandered, by an irrepressible impulse, from one window of the
Doge's palace to another. He took his station near the condemned,
however, and thrice crossed himself fervently.
Jacopo had tranquilly placed his person before the block. His head was
bare, his cheek colorless, his throat and neck uncovered from the
shoulders, his body in its linen, and the rest of his form was clad in
the ordinary dress of a gondolier.
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