The prisoner admitted that he had loaned the money. His explanation was both honorable and clear. But the Ten were obdurate that night.
“He shall go to the Pozzi prison for a year,” said they. “Besides this, he shall suffer the perpetual loss of all offices which he has held.”
Like a brave man, Carlo Zeno accepted the sentence without a murmur, and his sturdy frame did not suffer from the confinement. For twelve years longer he lived in perfect health; made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem; commanded the troops of the Republic once again; defeated the Cypriotes, and died peacefully,—a warrior with a name of undiminished lustre, most foully tarnished by his own compatriots. His is a reputation of undying glory, that of his judges is that of eternal shame. All honor to Carlo Zeno, the valorous Venetian, who could fight a ship as well as a squadron of foot soldiers on land! Salve, Venetia!
“Dip the banner of St. Mark,
Dip—and let the lions roar.
Zeno’s soul has gone above,
Bow—a warrior’s life is o’er.”
HARKEE, BOYS!
Harkee, Boys! I’ll tell you of the torrid, Spanish Main,
Where the tarpons leap and tumble in the silvery ocean plain,
Where the wheeling condors circle; where the long-nosed ant-bears sniff
At the food the Jackie “caches” in the Aztec warrior’s cliff.
Oh! Hurray for the deck of a galleon stout,
Hurray for the life on the sea,
Hurray! for the cutlass; the dirk; an’ th’ pike;
Wild rovers we will be.
Harkee, Boys! I’ll tell you of the men of Morgan’s band,
Of Drake and England—rascals—in the palm-tree, tropic land.
I’ll tell you of bold Hawkins, how he sailed around the Horn.
And the Manatees went chuck! chuck! chuck! in the sun-baked, lazy morn.