An hour after the landing, as soon as ever his duties gave him a moment's breathing space, young Zuan made up the Via Venezia—that single long street which runs north and south through the city—to the castle which sits at the street's northern end, and under which is the Land Gate, the only means of entering the town except by sea.
In the loggia of the castle he came upon the count—Jacopo Corner—a round old man with a red face, gouty, so that he went upon crutches. At this moment he was surrounded by a group of gentlemen—Arbesani for the most part, heads of the city's great families—De Dominis, Galzigna, Nemira, Zudeneghi, and such; but he turned from them to greet young Gradenigo.
"Ah, Zuan, my lad!" he cried out, "you come in the nick of time—you and your archers! You've saved the day, for those dogs were just getting the better of us. Another hour and—St. Mark!—our heads would have been on pike-staves!"
Young Zuan struggled to preserve a face of civil sympathy, but his eyes were upon the open doors beyond. Old Jacopo seemed to read his thought.
"Ay, we have the queen bee in there! She's in my private audience-chamber, bound to a chair. Queen bee, say I? Hussy! Strumpet! Daughter of abomination! Mother of sins!" He shook a crutch at the bronze doors. "Ay, she's there!" he said. "But the wench has cheated us, for all that. She has robbed me of the pleasure of tearing her evil bones apart—alive, that is."
Gradenigo, one hand on the door, turned slowly backward a masklike face. He felt that he was shaking and swaying like a drunken man.
"What do you—mean?" he said, in a flat voice.
Old Jacopo hobbled nearer and touched the younger man's arm. "Eh, lad!" he croaked. "Come! come! You're not yourself. The sun has got to you. You've a bound-up head, I see. Better have a rest!"
"What was it you said?" asked young Gradenigo, looking down at the ground, which swung slowly back and forth under him.
"Yaga?" said old Jacopo. "Oh, she's dead. The wanton's dead. She got a serving-maid to stab her while she sat bound in her—"