Though he
knew well that an assassin waited for him in the purlieus of the
church of San Salvatore, his step was quick and brisk; he walked as
a man who goes willingly to a rendezvous, and anticipates its climax
with pleasure. When he had left the great square with its blaze of
lanterns and its babel of tongues, and had begun to thread the narrow
streets by which he would reach the bridge of the Rialto, a smile
played for a moment about his determined mouth, and he drew his capuce
still closer over his ears.
"So it is Rocca whom they send--Rocca, the poltroon! Surely there is
the hand of God in this."
He raised his eyes for a moment to the starlit heaven, and then
continued his brisk walk. His way lay through winding alleys; over
bridges so narrow that two men could not pass abreast; through
passages where rogues lurked, and repulsive faces were thrust grinning
into his own. But he knew the city as one who had lived there all his
life; and for the others, the thieves and scum of Venice, he had
no thought. Not until he came out before the church of Santa Maria
Formosa did he once halt or look behind him. The mystery of the night
was a joy to him. Even in the shadow of the church, his rest was but
for a moment; and, as he rested, the meaning smile hovered again upon
his wan face.
"The play begins," he muttered, while he loosened slightly the girdle
of his habit and thrust his right hand inside it; "the God of Venice
give me courage."
A man was following him now--he was sure of it.
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