"It is the Proveditore Marcello!" cried Antonio, eager to profit by
the momentary respite.

The words of the young painter passed from mouth to mouth, and in a
few seconds the whole of the Uzcoques were acquainted with the
important capture that had been made. For a moment astonishment kept
them tongue-tied, and then a wild shout of exultation conveyed to
their companions on shore the intelligence of some joyful event.

Ropes were now thrown out to the pirate skiffs, the galley was safely
towed into the harbour, and the Proveditore, his son, and the few
Venetian sailors who had escaped the general slaughter, were conducted
to the burning town, amidst the jeers and ill-treatment of their
captors. Exposed to great danger from the falling roofs and timbers of
the blazing houses, they were led through the streets of Pesca, and on
their way had ample opportunity of witnessing the incredible cruelties
exercised by the pirates upon the inhabitants of that ill-fated town.
What made these cruelties appear still more horrible, was the part
taken in them by the Uzcoque women, who, as was the case at that
period with most of the Sclavonian races, were all trained to the use
of arms,[1] and who on this occasion swelled the ranks of the
freebooters. Their ferocity exceeded, if possible, that of the men.
Neither age, sex, nor station afforded any protection against these
furies, who perpetrated barbarities the details of which would exceed
belief.

[1] The reader of German literature will call to mind the
anecdote, in Jean Paul's _Levana_, of a Moldavian woman who in
one day slew seven men with her own hand, and the same evening
was delivered of a child.