Murano;
and the glass works had long been altogether banished from Venice on
account of the danger of fire, at a time when two-thirds of the houses
were of wood. But meanwhile Zorzi had learned the art, in spite of the
law, and he hoped in time to overcome the other obstacles that opposed
him.

There was strength of purpose in every line of his keen young face,
strength to endure, to forego, to suffer in silence for an end ardently
desired. The dark brown hair grew somewhat far back from the pale
forehead, the features were youthfully sharp and clearly drawn, and deep
neutral shadows gave a look of almost passionate sadness to the black
eyes. There was quick perception, imagination, love of art for its own
sake in the upper part of the face; its strength lay in the well-built
jaw and firm lips, and a little in the graceful and assured poise of the
head. Zorzi was not tall, but he was shapely, and moved without effort.

His eyes were sadder than usual just now, as he tended the fire in the
silence that was broken only by the low roar of the flames within the
brick furnace, and the irregular sound of the master's wooden instrument
as he crushed and stirred the materials together. Zorzi had longed to
see Contarini as soon as he had heard his name; and having unexpectedly
obtained the certainty of seeing him that very night, he wished that
the moment could be put off, he felt cold and hot, he wondered how he
should behave, and whether after all he might not be tempted to do his
enemy some bodily harm.

For in a few minutes the aspect of his world had changed, and
Contarini's unknown figure filled the future. Until to-day, he had never
seriously thought of Marietta's marriage, nor of what would happen to
him afterwards; but now, he was to be one of the instruments for
bringing the marriage about. He knew well enough what the appointment in
Saint Mark's meant: Marietta was to have an opportunity of seeing
Contarini before accepting him. Even that was something of a concession
in those times, but Beroviero fancied that he loved his child too much
to marry her against her will. This was probably a great match for the
glass-worker's daughter, however, and she would not refuse it. Contarini
had never seen her either; he might have heard that she was a pretty
girl, but there were famous beauties in Venice, and if he wanted
Marietta Beroviero it could only be for her dowry. The marriage was
therefore a mere bargain between the