re of this Francesco, monk?"

"His history is short, Signore; for at the age when most men are active
in looking to their welfare, he was pining in a prison."

"I remember to have heard of some such accusation; but it occurred in
the reign of the last Doge, did it not, father?"

"And he has endured to near the close of the reign of this, Highness!"

"How? The Senate, when apprised of the error of its judgment, was not
slow to repair the wrong!"

The monk regarded the prince earnestly, as if he would make certain
whether the surprise he witnessed was not a piece of consummate acting.
He felt convinced that the affair was one of that class of acts, which,
however oppressive, unjust, and destructive of personal happiness, had
not sufficient importance to come before them, who govern under systems
which care more for their own preservation than for the good of the
ruled. "Signor Doge," he said, "the state is discreet in matters that
touch its own reputation. There are reasons that I shall not presume to
examine, why the cell of poor Francesco was kept closed, long after the
death and confession of his accuser left his innocence beyond dispute."

The prince mused, and then he bethought him to consult the countenance
of his companion. The marble of the pilaster, against which he leaned,
was not more cold and unmoved than the face of the inquisitor. The man
had learned to smother every natural impulse in the assumed and
factitious duties of his office.

"And what has this case of Francesco to do with the execution of the
Bravo?" demanded the Doge, after a pause, in which he had in vain
struggled to assume the indifference of his counsellor.

"That I shall leave this prison-keeper's daughter to explain. Stand
forth, child, and relate what you know, remembering, if you speak before
the Prince of Venice, that you also speak before the King of Heaven!"

Gelsomina trembled, for one of her habits, however supported by her
motives, could not overcome a nature so retiring without a struggle. But
faithful to her promise, and sustained by her affection for the
condemned, she advanced a step, and stood no longer concealed by the
robes of the Carmelite.

"Thou art the daughter of the prison-keeper?" asked the prince mildly,
though surprise was strongly painted in his eye.

"Highness, we are poor, and we are unfortunate: we serve the state for
bread."

"Ye serve a noble master, child. Dost thou know aught of this Bravo?"

"D