Then, as we strain our eyes, the two tails of the sea-monster twist and clash together, closing in upon the string of rowers as they disappear in the dip behind San Giorgio, only to reappear in full sight, Pietro half a length ahead, straining every sinew, his superb arms swinging like a flail, his lithe body swaying in splendid, springing curves, the water rushing from his oar blade, his brother bending aft in perfect rhythm.
“Pietro! Pietro!” came the cry, shrill and clear, drowning all other sounds, and a great field of yellow burst into flower all over the lagoon, from San Giorgio to the Garden. The people went wild. If before there had been only a tempest, now there was a cyclone. The waves of blue and yellow surged alternately above the heads of the throng as Pasquale or Pietro gained or lost a foot. The Professor grew red and pale by turns, his voice broken to a whisper with continued cheering, the yellow rag streaming above his head, all the blood of his ancestors blazing in his face.
The contesting boats surged closer. You could now see the rise and fall of Pietro’s superb chest, the steel-like grip of his hands, and could outline the curves of his thighs and back. The ends of the yellow handkerchief, bound close about his head, were flying in the wind. His stroke was long and sweeping, his full weight on the oar; Pasquale’s stroke was short and quick, like the thrust of a spur.
Now they are abreast. Pietro’s eyes are blazing—Pasquale’s teeth are set. Both crews are doing their utmost. The yells are demoniac. Even the women are beside themselves with excitement.
Suddenly, when within five hundred yards of the goal, Pasquale turns his head to his mate; there is an answering cry, and then, as if some unseen power had lent its strength, Pasquale’s boat shoots half a length ahead, slackens, falls back, gains again, now an inch, now a foot, now clear of Pietro’s bow, and on, on, lashing the water, surging forward, springing with every gain, cheered by a thousand throats, past the red tower of San Giorgio, past the channel of spiles off the Garden, past the red buoy near the great warship,—one quick, sustained, blistering stroke,—until the judge’s flag drops from his hand, and the great race is won.
“A true knight, a gentleman every inch of him,” called out the Professor, forgetting that he had staked all his soldi on Pietro. “Fairly won, Pasquale.”
In the whirl of the victory, I had forgotten Pietro, my gondolier of the morning. The poor fellow was sitting in the bow of his boat, his head in his hands, wiping his forehead and throat, the tears streaming down his cheeks. His brother sat beside him. In the gladness and disappointment of the hour, no one of the crowd around him seemed to think of the hero of five minutes before. Not so Giorgio, who was beside himself with grief over Pietro’s defeat, and who had not taken his eyes from his face. In an instant more he sprang forward, calling out, “No! no! Brava Pietro!” Espero joining in as if with a common impulse, and both forcing their gondolas close to Pietro’s.
A moment more and Giorgio was over the rail of Pietro’s boat, patting his back, stroking his head, comforting him as you would think only a woman could—but then you do not know Giorgio. Pietro lifted up his face and looked into Giorgio’s eyes with an expression so woe-begone, and full of such intense suffering, that Giorgio instinctively flung his arm around the great, splendid fellow’s neck. Then came a few broken words, a tender caressing stroke of Giorgio’s hand, a drawing of Pietro’s head down on his breast as if it had been a girl’s, and then, still comforting him—telling him over and over again how superbly he had rowed, how the next time he would win, how he had made a grand second—
Giorgio bent his head—and kissed him.
When Pietro, a moment later, pulled himself together and stood erect in his boat, with eyes still wet, the look on his face was as firm and determined as ever.