. Your ancestors
were senators and Doges of Venice, while mine have been, since the
fishermen first built their huts in the Lagunes, laborers on the canals,
and rowers of gondolas. You are powerful, and rich, and courted; while I
am denounced, and in secret, I fear, condemned. In short, you are Don
Camillo Monforte, and I am Jacopo Frontoni!"

Don Camillo was touched, for the Bravo spoke without bitterness, and in
deep sorrow.

"I would thou wert at the confessional, poor Jacopo!" he said; "I am
little able to give ease to such a burden."

"Signore, I have lived too long shut out from the good wishes of my
fellows, and I can bear with it no longer. The accursed Senate may cut
me off without warning, and then who will stop to look at my grave!
Signore, I must speak or die!"

"Thy case is piteous, Jacopo! Thou hast need of ghostly counsel."

"Here is no priest, Signore, and I carry a weight past bearing. The only
man who has shown interest in me, for three long and dreadful years, is
gone!"

"But he will return, poor Jacopo."

"Signore, he will never return. He is with the fishes of the Lagunes."

"By thy hand, monster!"

"By the justice of the illustrious Republic," said the Bravo, with a
smothered but bitter smile.

"Ha! they are then awake to the acts of thy class? Thy repentance is
the fruit of fear!"

Jacopo seemed choked. He had evidently counted on the awakened sympathy
of his companion, notwithstanding the difference in their situations,
and to be thus thrown off again, unmanned him. He shuddered, and every
muscle and nerve appeared about to yield its power. Touched by so
unequivocal signs of suffering, Don Camillo kept close at his side,
reluctant to enter more deeply into the feelings of one of his known
character, and yet unable to desert a fellow-creature in so grievous
agony.

"Signor Duca," said the Bravo, with a pathos in his voice that went to
the heart of his auditor, "leave me. If they ask for a proscribed man,
let them come here; in the morning they will find my body near the
graves of the heretics."

"Speak, I will hear thee."

Jacopo looked up with doubt expressed on his features.

"Unburden thyself; I will listen, though thou recounted the
assassination of my dearest friend."

The oppressed Bravo gazed at him, as if he still distrusted his
sincerity. His face worked, and his look became still more wistful; but
as Don Camillo faced the moon, and betrayed the extent of his sympath