"Bless thee—bless thee!—I would thou hadst not come."
"Fear not for me! I am little used to such a crowd, but thou wilt see that I shall dare to speak them fair, and to make known the truth boldly. I want but breath."
"Dearest! Thou hast a mother—a father to share thy tenderness. Duty to them will make thee happy!"
"Now I can speak, and thou shalt see how I will vindicate thy name."
She arose from the arms of her lover, who, notwithstanding his bonds, released his hold of her slight form with a reluctance greater than that with which he parted with life. The struggle in the mind of Jacopo seemed over. He bowed his head passively to the block, before which he was kneeling; and it is probable, by the manner in which his hands were clasped, that he prayed for her who left him. Not so Gelsomina. Parting her hair over her spotless forehead with both hands, she advanced towards the fishermen, who were familiar to her eye by their red caps and bare limbs. Her smile was like that which the imagination would bestow on the blessed, in their intercourse of love.
"Venetians!" she said, "I cannot blame you; ye are here to witness the death of one whom ye believe unfit to live----"
"The murderer of old Antonio!" muttered several of the group.
"Aye, even the murderer of that aged and excellent man. But when you hear the truth, when you come to know that he whom you have believed an assassin, was a pious child, a faithful servant of the Republic, a gentle gondolier, and a true heart, you will change your bloody purpose for a wish for justice."
A common murmur drowned her voice, which was so trembling and low as to need deep stillness to render the words audible. The Carmelite had advanced to her side, and he motioned earnestly for silence.
"Hear her, men of the Lagunes!" he said; "she utters holy truth."