hole story. Now
Messer Paolo, desiring no better than that his son should wed the
heiress of his neighbour, and knowing well that Messer Pietro would
make great joy receiving back his daughter from the grave, bade
Gerardo in haste take rich apparel and clothe Elena therewith, and
fetch her home. These things were swiftly done; and after evenfall
Messer Pietro was bidden to grave business in his neighbour's palace.
With heavy heart he came, from a house of mourning to a house of
gladness. But there, at the banquet-table's head he saw his dead child
Elena alive, and at her side a husband. And when the whole truth had
been declared, he not only kissed and embraced the pair who knelt
before him, but of his goodness forgave the nurse, who in her
turn came trembling to his feet. Then fell there joy and bliss in
overmeasure that night upon both palaces of the Canal Grande. And with
the morrow the Church blessed the spousals which long since had been
on both sides vowed and consummated.

VI.--ON THE LAGOONS

The mornings are spent in study, sometimes among pictures, sometimes
in the Marcian Library, or again in those vast convent chambers of
the Frari, where the archives of Venice load innumerable shelves. The
afternoons invite us to a further flight upon the water. Both sandolo
and gondola await our choice, and we may sail or row, according as the
wind and inclination tempt us.

Yonder lies San Lazzaro, with the neat red buildings of the Armenian
convent. The last oleander blossoms shine rosy pink above its walls
against the pure blue sky as we glide into the little harbour. Boats
piled with coal-black grapes block the landing-place, for the Padri
are gathering their vintage from the Lido, and their presses run
with new wine. Eustace and I have not come to revive memories of
Byron--that curious patron saint of the Armenian colony--or to
inspect the printing-press, which issues books of little value for
our studies. It is enough to pace the terrace, and linger half an
hour beneath the low broad arches of the alleys pleached with vines,
through which the domes and towers of Venice rise more beautiful by
distance.

Malamocco lies considerably farther, and needs a full hour of stout
rowing to reach it. Alighting there, we cross the narrow strip of
land, and find ourselves upon the huge sea-wall--block piled
on block--of Istrian stone in tiers and ranks, with cunning
breathing-places for the waves to wreak their fury on and f