different lives you might have lived.'"

"If you are going to tell ghost-stories," cried Coeur-Volant, "I will
call for a bottle of Canary!"

"And I," rejoined the Count good-humouredly, "will try to coax the
ladies forth with a song;" and picking up his lute, which always lay
within reach, he began to sing in the Venetian dialect:--

There's a villa on the Brenta
Where the statues, white as snow,
All along the water-terrace
Perch like sea-gulls in a row.

There's a garden on the Brenta
Where the fairest ladies meet,
Picking roses from the trellis
For the gallants at their feet.

There's an arbour on the Brenta
Made of yews that screen the light,
Where I kiss my girl at midday
Close as lovers kiss at night.

The players soon emerged at this call and presently the deck resounded
with song and laughter. All the company were familiar with the Venetian
bacaroles, and Castelrovinato's lute was passed from hand to hand, as
one after another, incited by the Marquess's Canary, tried to recall
some favourite measure--"La biondina in gondoleta" or "Guarda, che bella
luna."