is hand on Simon's arm. "You are
very brave, young man, to speak up to the ruler of Venice as you did.
And who might you be?"

Simon introduced himself, and the friar bowed and addressed him in
French. "How good to speak the language of my homeland again. I am
Mathieu d'Alcon of the Little Brothers of San Francesco, and I was born
near Limoges, which is not far from your estate, Count. Of course, no
place in France is far from Gobignon lands." His broad smile told Simon
the remark was meant in friendly jest. "It was our good King Louis who
sent me to the Tartars years ago. I am glad we will be in French hands
after we leave Venice." He gave Simon's arm a squeeze and returned to
the doge's procession.

Simon had begun to think the whole world had turned against him, and
Friar Mathieu's friendly words cheered him immensely. He watched the
white-bearded friar with a warm feeling as he shook his head at the
attendants who held a sedan chair for him. As befitted a good
Franciscan, sworn to poverty and dedicated to simplicity, the friar
would allow no one to carry him but insisted on walking on his own
sandaled feet behind the Tartars' chair.

Simon and his men followed the last contingent of the doge's foot
soldiers along the waterfront. Ahead, a stone bridge arched over one of
the many Venetian canals.

The procession was moving slowly now. After crossing the bridge, Simon
saw the ambassadors' sedan chair swing around a corner, and his pulse
quickened because those he was to protect were out of his sight.

He wanted to hurry to the corner, but the street narrowed here, with the
windowless white ground floor of a palazzo on one side and an iron
railing on the other. There was no room to bypass those ahead. Simon
hurried his pace until he was all but treading on the leather-shod heels
of the spearman in front of him.

He turned the corner into the small square in front of the doge's
palace. He saw the doge's sedan chair and that of the Tartars pass
through the gateway between the palace and the great basilica of San
Marco.

Then he stopped short, feeling as if he had crashed headfirst into a
wall. The tall gates leading into the palace swung shut, and facing him
was a triple line of men-at-arms of the Most Serene Republic, in green
and gold tunics and armed with long spears.

"Mere de Dieu!" he whispered.

He could not force his way into the palace. If he even tried, he would
only look ridiculous. Indeed, he doubt