perplexities. A word to Jacopo changed the direction of the gondola,
and they entered the grand canal, on which Contarini's dwelling was
situated.

The brief twilight of Italy had passed, and it was now completely
night, dark and starless, which made more startling the sudden
appearance of several blazing torches, borne by masked and hooded
figures attired in black, who struck loud and repeated blows on the
gates of the Palazzo Contarini.

"Antonio Marcello! We seek Antonio Marcello!" exclaimed a deep and
hollow voice.

It would be necessary to be a Venetian, and to have lived in those
days, fully to comprehend the feeling of horror which caused Antonio's
blood to run cold, and the sweat to stand in beads upon his forehead,
when he heard his name uttered by the familiars of the state
Inquisition. Frightful dungeons, masked judges, halls hung with black,
the block and the gleaming axe, the rack and its blood-stained
attendants, the whole grim paraphernalia of the Secret Tribunal,
passed like the scenes of a phantasmagoria before the mental vision of
the young painter. He at once conjectured the cause for which they
were seeking him. He had doubtless been taken for the youth who, by
his energy and promptitude, had rescued the mysterious old woman from
the mob, and who bore so striking and unaccountable resemblance to
himself; and it must be on suspicion of his being connected with the
attack on the Malipieri palace, that the ministers of justice were
hunting him out. Nor did he see how he should he able to convince his
judges of his innocence. The tale he had to tell, although the truth,
was still too marvellous and improbable to obtain credence, and would