"Let us once more enter and look about us," said Nikola.
"One moment," I answered, drawing him back a step as he was in the act of coming into collision with a beautiful girl who had just disembarked from her gondola upon the arm of a grey-haired man.
"You need have no fear," he replied. "You forget that we are Spirits in a Spirit World, and that they are not conscious of our presence."
And indeed this appeared to be the case, for no one recognized us, and more than once I saw people approach Nikola, and, scarcely believable though it may seem, walk through him without being the least aware of the fact.
On this occasion the great courtyard was brilliantly illuminated. Scores of beautiful figures were ascending the stairs continually, while strains of music sounded from the rooms above.
"Let us ascend," said Nikola, "and see the pageant there."
It was indeed a sumptuous entertainment, and when we entered the great reception-rooms, no fairer scene could have been witnessed in Venice. I looked upon the bridegroom and his bride, and recognized the former as being the man I had seen praising the architect on the skill he had displayed in the building of the palace. He was more bravely attired now, however, than on that occasion, and did the honours of his house with the ease and assurance of one accustomed to uphold the dignity of his name and position in the world. His bride was a beautiful girl, with a pale, sweet face, and eyes that haunted one long after they had looked at them. She was doing her best to appear happy before her guests, but in my own heart I knew that such was not the case. Knowing what was before her, I realized something of the misery that was weighing so heavily upon her heart. Surrounding her were the proudest citizens of the proudest Republic of all time. There was not one who did not do her honour, and among the women who were her guests that night, how many were there who envied her good fortune? Then the scene once more changed.
This time the room was that with which I was best acquainted, the same in which Nikola had taken up his abode. The frescoes upon the walls and ceilings were barely dry, and Revecce was at sea again, opposing his old enemy the French, who once more threatened an attack upon the city. It was towards evening, and the red glow of the sunset shone upon a woman's face, as she stood beside the table at which a man was writing. I at once recognized her as Revecce's bride. The man himself was young and handsome, and when he looked up at the woman and smiled, the love-light shone in her eyes, as it had not done when she had looked upon Revecce. There was no need for Nikola to tell me that he was Andrea Bunopelli, the artist to whose skill the room owed its paintings.
"Art thou sure 'twill be safe, love?" asked the woman in a low voice, as she placed her hand upon his shoulder. "Remember 'tis death to bring a false accusation against a citizen of the Republic, and 'twill be worse when 'tis against the great Revecce."
"I have borne that in mind," the man answered. "But there is nought to fear, dear love. The writing will not be suspected, and I will drop it in the Lion's Mouth myself,—and then?"