“Like the professor, of the old days—of the founding of this wonderful city by a mere handful of refugees, who fled before the devastating, barbarian army of Attila, well named the ‘Scourge of God.’ How little could they have dreamed—those terror-stricken refugees—of the wonderful future of this city of a hundred islands! I am dreaming of Venice at the height of her glory, of the power of the Doges, of the senators in their splendid robes, of battles and conquests, of riches and splendor, of pompous pageants, of Ascension Day, when amid the roar of cannon, the shouts of the people, and the throb of music, the Doge in his barge of gold flung a golden ring into the blue waves, announcing the wedding of Venice and the sea. Yes, I am dreaming—dreaming!”
“And while you dream, pard,” said Brad, “dream some of the dark deeds, the crimes, the Bridge of Sighs, the Council of Ten——”
A strange, half-startled exclamation came from the gondolier. He had paused, clutching his oar, leaning forward—apparently paying attention to their words for the first time. He could speak a little English, but Professor Gunn addressed him in Italian:
“What’s the matter, Reggio?”
“The boys, signor.”
“What of them?”
“They talk too much. It is not well. They should be more careful.”
“Careful? I do not understand you, Reggio. Why should they be careful?”
“I hear them speak of the Ten,” whispered Reggio, leaning forward. “It is very dangerous, signor. Nothing should be spoken.”
“Still I do not understand you,” persisted the amazed old pedagogue. “The time of the Council of Ten is past forever. There is now no longer danger that a citizen of Venice may be secretly denounced to the council, secretly tried and secretly executed. We know that at one time the despotism of this council was so great that even the Doge himself became a mere instrument in the hands of that body of tyrants. Now, however, there is no council——”