"Cospetto! They tell me the councils have a short manner of making a sinner give up his misdeeds. Now, here is the miscreant Jacopo. What aileth thee, man? The anchor on which thou leanest is not heated."
"Nor is it of feathers; one's bones may ache from its touch, without offence, I hope."
"The iron is of Elba, and was forged in a volcano. This Jacopo is one that should not go at large in an honest city, and yet is he seen pacing the square with as much ease as a noble in the Broglio!"
"I know him not."
"Not to know the boldest hand and surest stiletto in Venice, honest Roderigo, is to thy praise. But he is well marked among us of the port, and we never see the man but we begin to think of our sins, and of penances forgotten. I marvel much that the inquisitors do not give him to the devil on some public ceremony, for the benefit of small offenders!"
"Are his deeds so notorious that they might pronounce on his fate without proof?"
"Go, ask that question in the streets! Not a Christian loses his life in Venice without warning; and the number is not few, to say nothing of those who die with state fevers, but men see the work of his sure hand in the blow. Signor Roderigo, your canals are convenient graves for sudden deaths!"
"Methinks there is contradiction in this. Thou speakest of proofs of the hand that gave it, in the manner of the blow, and then thou callest in the aid of the canals to cover the whole deed. Truly, there is some wrong done this Jacopo, who is, haply, a man slandered."
"I have heard of slandering a priest, for they are Christians, bound to keep good names for the church's honor, but to utter an injury against a bravo would a little exceed the tongue of an avocato. What mattereth it whether the hand be a shade deeper in color or not, when blood is on it."
"Thou sayest truly," answered the pretended Roderigo, drawing a heavy breath. "It mattereth little indeed to him condemned, whether the sentence cometh of one or of many crimes."