and some of the crew were
leaning idly over the rail. The song stopped. The man with the
tambourine sallied forth. Out of the momentary silence came the
indistinct tinkle of the piano in the barge beyond; some one over there
was bellowing the toreador's song. This died away amid a faint patter of
applause. How clear all the sounds were! thought Merrihew. The tenor of
the San Marco troupe rose with the prima donna. It was _Il Trovatore_
this time; a bit noisy.

What was that? Hillard was no longer lethargic. He stumbled over the
recumbent Merrihew.

"Why don't you walk all over me?" growled Merrihew. "Sit down!"

"Be still!" said Hillard roughly.

From a gondola on the far side of the barge, standing out of the press
and just beyond the radiance of the lanterns, never powerful at best,
came another voice, a voice which had a soul in it, a voice which broke
into song for the pure joy of it, spontaneously. Clear, thrilling, a
voice before which the world bows down. The prima donna in the barge was
clever; she stopped. The tenor went on, however, recognizing that he was
playing opposite, as they say, to a great singer. Hillard's heart beat
fast. That voice! There could not be another like it. And she was here
in Venice!

"Achille," he said, "do you hear that voice over there in the dark?"

"Yes, signore."

"Push round to it. See, the singer is standing up now. Hurry!"

This sounded important, and Merrihew scrambled to his feet. Yes, he,
too, could see this unexpected cantatrice. In fact, everybody was
beginning to stand up. All interest was centered in this new voice.
Then, as if conscious of this interest, the singer sat down, but still
kept to the melody. Achille backed out of the jam, stole round the
barge, and craftily approached the outstanding gondola. The two men
still remained on their feet.

"Quick, Achille!" For the far gondola was heading for the Grand Canal.

Merrihew understood now. He grasped Hillard's arm excitedly.

"Follow!" commanded Hillard. "Ten lire if you can come up alongside that
gondola. Can you see the number?"

"It is 152, signore; Pompeo. It will be a race," doubtfully.

"No matter; follow. It will be worth your while."

And a race it became. Both gondoliers were long past their youth, but
each knew the exact weight and effort to be put upon the oar; no useless
energy, no hurried work, no spurting, but long, deep swinging strokes.
Up the Grand Canal, past the brilliant hotels. T