"Every soldo he has. Cavalli talks to him all the time. They are like crazy people over there at the Beneto. Ah, good Luigi, do not win! I am so unhappy!" and the tears gathered in her eyes.
Luigi, still holding her hand, laughed gently as he looked up into her face. The others who had heard the girl's plea laughed with him.
"Go, child, and bring Marco here to me. Cavalli shall not ruin you both, if I can help it."
The girl pushed her hair back from her flushed face, drew her shawl closer about her shoulders, bent her pretty head, wormed her way out of the dense throng pressing in upon the table, and ran with all her might toward the Caffè Beneto, followed by her mother.
In a few minutes the two were back again, their arms fast locked in those of a young fellow of twenty—they marry young under Italian suns—who stood looking at Luigi with curious, wondering eyes. Not that he did not know the champion—every man in Venice knew him—but because Cavalli had pictured Luigi as of doubtful strength, and the Luigi before him did not fit Cavalli's measure.
"Marco," said Luigi, a smile crossing his face.
"Yes, Signore Zanaletto," answered the boy.
"Come nearer."
The young fellow advanced to the table. The others who had been near enough to learn of the girl's errand crowded the closer. Every utterance of a champion on a day like this is of value.