Light steps led from the balcony to the Canal, where a gay gondola cushioned in sapphire blue floated.
The lady stepped in and the Duke after her; the gondolier sped the light boat forward between the palaces.
“This has always been a pleasant memory to me,” he said.
She sat erect with a fan of curled white ostrich to lips and looked at him over the feather tips.
“The night you went away,” she said, “my husband hired three bravos. I was crossing the bridge when I met them–this bridge—”
Suddenly the Rialto was over them; the gondola had shot from blue and gold into darkness.
“They thought I was coming to meet you. My husband—”
The boat stopped in the blackness; he felt, though he could not see, the lady rise and step out.
Her hand touched his, and blindly following the guidance of it, he stepped ashore, and felt a step beneath his feet; the firm clasp on his wrist drew him through a doorway.
“My husband is coming back to-morrow,” the voice continued. “Oh, Philip, I am afraid!”