“What was that?” he demanded.
“A gondola, surely, Excellence.”
Garden water-gates seldom swung in Venice at night. For a moment he watched. “Some servant’s errand,” he reflected, and leaned back on the cushions.
In the orchid-scented garden, Tita’s brawny arms lifted Teresa out and set her upon the marble steps. He was thinking of the Englishman.
“Illustrissima!” he whispered. “Shall I kill him?”
Then something broke in Teresa’s breast. She clasped the broad neck, sobbing:
“No, no, Tita! Dear Tita! Not that! I would rather die myself!”
CHAPTER XXX
THE PEACE OF PADRE SOMALIAN
All night Gordon’s gondola floated over the dark lagoon. All night the star-silvered dip of the oar broke into ripples the glassy surface. All night Gordon sat silent, goring out across the low islands that barred the sea.