Chapter 31

"On--on--
It Is our knell, or that of Venice.--On."
MARINO FALIERO.

Another morning called the Venetians to their affairs. Agents of the
police had been active in preparing the public mind, and as the sun rose
above the narrow sea, the squares began to fill. There were present the
curious citizen in his, cloak and cap, bare-legged laborers in wondering
awe, the circumspect Hebrew in his gaberdine and beard, masked
gentlemen, and many an attentive stranger from among the thousands who
still frequented that declining mart. It was rumored that an act of
retributive justice was about to take place, for the peace of the town
and the protection of the citizen. In short, curiosity, idleness, and
revenge, with all the usual train of human feelings, had drawn together
a multitude eager to witness the agonies of a fellow-creature.

The Dalmatians were drawn up near the sea, in a manner to inclose the
two granite columns of the Piazzetta. Their grave and disciplined faces
fronted inwards towards the African pillars, those well known landmarks
of death. A few grim warriors of higher rank paced the flags before the
troops, while a dense crowd filled the exterior space. By special favor
more than a hundred fishermen were grouped within the armed men,
witnesses that their class had revenge. Between the lofty pedestals of
St. Theodore and the winged lion lay the block and the axe, the basket
and the saw-dust; the usual accompaniments of justice in that day. By
their side stood the executioner.

At length a movement in the living mass drew every eye towards the gate
of the palace. A murmur arose, the multitude wavered, and a small body
of the Sbirri came into view. Their steps were swift like the march of
destiny. The Dalmatians opened to receive these ministers of fate into
their bosom, and closing their ranks again, appeared to preclude the
world with its hopes from the condemned. On reaching the block between
the columns the Sbirri fell off in files, waiting at a little distance,
while Jacopo was left before the engines of death attended by his
ghostly counsellor, the Carmelite. The action left them open to the gaze
of the throng.

Father Anselmo was in the usual attire of a bare-footed friar of his
order. The cowl of the holy man was thrown back, exposing his mortified
lineaments and his self-examining eye to those around. The expression of
his countenance was that of bewildered uncertainty, relieved by frequent
but fitful glimmerings of hope. Though his lips were constant in prayer,
his looks wandered, by an irrepressible impulse, from one window of the
Doge's palace to another. He took his station near the condemned,
however, and thrice crossed himself fervently.

Jacopo had