esent to my eyes as if I had actually witnessed them.
There is nothing strange in this; for every historian (and _I_ am a
historian) is a species of ghost, telling of things bygone."

"'The friends accompanied the stranger to a room at some little
distance; where, without further prelude, he went on, as follows:--

"'"A long, long time ago--if I mistake not, it was in the month of
August of the year 1354--the great Genoese General Paganino Doria had
utterly routed the Venetians, and taken their town of Parenzo by storm.
In the gulf, close before Venice, his well-manned galleys were cruizing
up and down, like hungry beasts of prey running backwards and forwards,
watching how best to grasp their quarry. Deadly terror took possession
of the Signoria and populace. Everybody who could carry arms took to
their weapons or to their oars. They collected their forces and
treasure at the harbour of San Nicolo. Ships and trees were sunk, and
chains fastened together, to block the passage against the enemy.
Whilst the weapons and the armour clanged and clattered, and the heavy
masses went thundering down into the sea, agents of the Signoria were
to be seen on the Rialto wiping the perspiration from their pale
foreheads, and offering, in hoarse accents and with distracted faces,
cent, per cent. for ready cash; for even of that the troubled republic
was in urgent need. But it was decreed in the mysterious councils of
Eternal Providence that just at this season of the extremest trouble
and necessity the faithful shepherd of this distracted flock should be
taken away from them. The Doge, Andrea Dandulo, whom his people styled
'The dear little Count' (_Il caro Contino_)--because he was always kind
and good, and never crossed the square of San Marco without being
prepared with money or good advice for all who needed either--died,
worn out by fatigue and anxiety. And as those who are disheartened by
misfortune feel doubly every blow, which at another time they would
scarcely notice, the people were overwhelmed with sorrow when they
heard the bells of San Marco announcing in hollow tones of sadness the
death of their ruler. Their hope and stay was gone; they cried aloud
that they would have to bow their necks to the yoke of Genoa; although,
as concerned the warlike operations, the death of Dandulo did not seem
such a great disaster. For the little Count liked to live in peace and
comfort; he was fonder of watching the mysterious courses of