She wished to hear the remainder of the story, however, for she longed to understand him fully.
"Well, what happened then to the man with the scarlet thread?" she inquired.
"More than once he felt his head was insecure on his shoulders," Stelio replied laughingly. "He had to blow pipes as large as the trunk of a tree, and he had to do it with his own mouth, unaided by bellows. He blew and blew with all his might, without ceasing. Fancy it! The lungs of a Cyclops would hardly be strong enough for that. Ah, some day I shall describe the fever of that existence hanging between the ax and the production of a miracle, in colloquy with the elements. He had Fire, Water, and Earth, but lacked Air—the movement of the Air. But every day the Council of Ten sent to him a red-haired man to wish him good morning—you know, that red-haired man, with a cap over his eyes, who embraces the column in the Adoration of the Magi of the second Bonifazio. After colossal labors, Seguso had a brilliant idea. He found a magician, who was said to have power over the Wind in favor of long navigations. He said to the wizard: 'I need a little wind, not too light nor too strong, but steady and gentle, which I could manage as I wish: only a little breeze with which to blow some glass that I have in my head. Lenius aspirans aura secunda venit. Do you understand, old man?'"
The story-teller burst into a ringing laugh, for he could fancy the scene with all its details in a house on the Calle della Testa, at San Zanepolo, where the Schiavone lived with his daughter.
La Foscarina tried to join in his gayety; but his boyish laughter pained her as it had once before when she was lost in the labyrinth.
"It is a long story," Stelio went on. "Some day I shall use it, but I am keeping it for a time when I have more leisure. Now fancy! The magician works the spell. Every night Dardi sent his sailors to the Tre Porti to spread a snare for the little Wind. At last, one night, or rather just before dawn, when the moon was about to set, they caught it asleep on a sandy bank in the midst of a flock of tired swallows it had borne thither.
"There it lay, on its back, breathing as lightly as a child in the salty aroma of the waters, almost covered by innumerable little forked tails. The rising tide rocked it in its slumber, and the black-and-white travelers fluttered about it, weary with their long flight."
"What a charming fancy!" exclaimed La Foscarina at this fresh picture. "Where have you seen that?"
"Here begins the real charm of the story," he answered. "They seize the sleeping Wind, bind it with osier withes, carry it aboard their boat, and set sail for Temòdia. The bark is invaded by the flock of swallows, which will not abandon the leader of their flight."
Stelio paused, because the details of the fantasy crowded his imagination to such a degree that he knew not which to choose to relate.