The Pascale students took it up, and once came in collision with that Tiziano of Cadore, who they say broke a boat-hook over the head of one of them who had spoken ill of the Master.
But this did not silence the talk, and one dark night, when the air was full of flying mist, one of Pascale’s students came to me and told me that he wanted me to take a party over to Murano. The weather was so bad that I refused to go—the wind blew in gusts, sheet lightning filled the Eastern sky, and all honest men, but poor belated gondoliers, had hied them home.
I refused to go.
Had I not seen Gian the painter go not half an hour before? Well, if he could go, others could too.
I refused to go—except for double fare.
He accepted and placed the double fare in silver in my palm. Then he gave a whistle and from behind the corners came trooping enough swashbuckler students to swamp my gondola. I let in just enough to fill the seats and pushed off, leaving several standing on the stone steps cursing me and everything and everybody.
As my boat slid away in the fog and headed on our course, I glanced back and saw the three barca-loads following in my wake.
There was much muffled talk, and orders from some one in charge to keep silence. But there was passing of strong drink, and then talk, and from it I gathered that these were all students from Pascale’s, out on one of those student carousals, intent on heaven knows what! It was none of my business.
We shipped considerable water, and some of the students were down on their knees praying and bailing, bailing and praying.
At last we reached the Murano landing. All got out, the barcas tied up, and I tied up, too, determined to see what was doing. The strong drink was passed, and a low, heavy-set fellow who seemed to be captain charged all not to speak, but to follow him and do as he did.