in the
middle of the square, he released his arm with a contemptuous gesture,
saying: "The lute-player, or I, my fair one; you can decide----"

The Venetian laughed loudly, laid her hand on Ulrich's arm and said:
"The rest of the Shrove-Tuesday night shall be yours, my merry singer."

Ulrich joined in her gayety, and taking the lute from his neck, offered
it to the cavalier, with a defiant gesture, exclaiming:

"It's at your disposal, Mask; we have changed parts. But please hold it
firmer than you held your lady." High play went on in the gaming hall;
Claudia was lucky with the artist's gold.

At midnight the banker laid down the cards. It was Ash-Wednesday, the
hall must be cleared; the quiet Lenten season had begun.

The players withdrew into the adjoining rooms, among them the
much-envied couple.

Claudia threw herself upon a couch; Ulrich left her to procure a
gondola.

As soon as he was gone, she was surrounded by a motley throng of
suitors.

How the beautiful woman's dark eyes sparkled, how the gems on her
full neck and dazzling arms glittered, how readily she uttered a witty
repartee to each gay sally.

"Claudia unaccompanied!" cried a young noble. "The strangest sight at
this remarkable carnival!"

"I am fasting," she answered gaily; "and now that I long for meagre
food, you come! What a lucky chance!"

"Heavy Grimani has also become a very light man, with your assistance."

"That's why he flew away. Suppose you follow him?"

"Gladly, gladly, if you will accompany me."

"Excuse me to-day; there comes my knight."

Ulrich had remained absent a long time, but Claudia had not noticed
it. Now he bowed to the gentlemen, offered her his arm, and as they
descended the staircase, whispered: "The mask who escorted you just now
detained me;--and there... see, they are picking him up down there in
the court-yard.--He attacked me...."

"You have--you...."

"'They came to his assistance immediately. He barred my way with his
unsheathed blade."

Claudia hastily drew her hand from the artist's arm, exclaiming in a
low, anxious tone: "Go, go, unhappy man, whoever you may be! It was
Luigi Grimani; it was a Grimani! You are lost, if they find you. Go, if
you love your life, go at once!"

So ended the Shrove-Tuesday, which had begun so gloriously for the young
artist. Titian's "well done" no longer sounded cheerfully in his ears,
the "go, go," of the venal woman echoed all the more loudly.

De Soto was w