silence, broken at last by the elder Marcello.

"I have long been convinced," he said, "that Contarini would never
succeed in making of you a painter fit to rank with those old and
illustrious masters of whom Venice is so justly proud. But I had not
thought so poorly of you, Antonio, as to believe that you would want
courage to defend an object, for the attainment of which you scrupled
not to disobey your venerable instructor. What the kind entreaties and
remonstrances of Contarini could not induce you to abandon, you are
ready to annihilate on the very first symptom of danger. Oh, Venice!"
exclaimed the Proveditore, his fine countenance assuming an expression
of extreme bitterness, as he gazed mournfully at the portraits of his
ancestors, including more than one Doge, which were suspended round
the walls of the apartment--"Venice! thou art indeed degenerate, when
peril so remote can blanch the cheek of thy patrician youth."

He strode twice up and down the hall, then returning to his son, bade
him fetch the picture which he was so desirous of destroying. Antonio,
downcast and abashed by these reproaches, which, however, were
insufficient to awaken nobler aspirations in his weak and irresolute
nature, hurried to his chamber, and presently returned with a roll of
canvass in his hand, which he unfolded and spread before the
Proveditore--then, dreading to encounter his father's ridicule, he
shrunk back out of the firelight. But the effect produced upon
Marcello by the portrait of the old woman, was very different from
that anticipated by his son. Scarcely had he cast his eyes upon the
unearthly visage, when he started back with an exclamation of horror
and astonishment.

"By all the saints, Antonio," cried he in an altered voice, "that is a