Mark were striking the hour of eight
o'clock when, Fra Giovanni stepped from his gondola, and crossed the
great square toward that labyrinth of narrow streets and winding
alleys they call the Merceria.
The Piazza itself was then ablaze with the light of countless lamps;
dainty lanterns, colored as the rainbow, swayed to the soft breeze
between the arches of the colonnade. Nobles were seated at the doors
of the splendid cafes; the music of stringed instruments mingled with
the louder, sweeter music of the bells; women, whose jewels were as
sprays of flame, many-hued and dazzling, hung timidly upon the arms of
lovers; gallants swaggered in costly velvets and silks which were the
spoil of the generous East; even cassocked priests and monks in their
sombre habits passed to and fro amidst that glittering throng, come
out to herald the glory of a summer's night.
And clear and round, lifting themselves up through the blue haze to
the silent world of stars above, were the domes and cupolas of the
great chapel itself--the chapel which, through seven centuries, had
been the city's witness to the God who had made her great, and who
would uphold her still before the nations.
The priest passed through the crowd swiftly, seeming to look neither
to the right nor to the left. The brown habit of the Capuchins was his
dress, and his cowl was drawn so well over his head that only his eyes
were visible--those eyes which stand out so strangely in the many
portraits which are still the proud possession of Venice.
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