"To the Most Reverend the Patriarchs, Archbishops, and Bishops of our Venetian Dominions," said this "Protest," "and to the Vicars, Abbots, Priors, Rectors of Parochial Churches, and other Ecclesiastical Prelates, greeting:" forthwith proceeding to declare that "the Interdict which his Holiness was 'said' to have published was null and void, and forbidden to be observed—not having been incurred by any fault of Venice."
But even those who could not read soon recognized the features of that message, which met them everywhere, hiding the scars of other messages which they must not see.
"No, no," they said, with laughing thanks to some friendly interpreter who stood near; "it is enough; va bene—we know it like our Ave Maria!"
But sometimes a family group came back for a word, when the others had scattered.
"Thou, Gigio, tell the good padre!" says the bright-eyed young contadina, pulling the gray sleeve of her fisherman who stands stolidly beside her.
"Si, si," he answers indifferently, shrugging his shoulders and relapsing into silence, as he pushes his wife and mother before him for a refuge; for the men of the islands were less at home in argument with the priests than were the women of their households.
"It is thus, your Reverence," the young woman explains cheerily. "It is the grandmother who is afraid. Santa Maria! how she is afraid!" She touches her forehead significantly.
The simple old woman, comprehending only that they speak of her, drops a courtesy, looking furtively about her with troubled eyes, and fumbling over her beads; the "protest" has no meaning for her, although it is written in good Venetian.
But a few words suffice for such as these who have caught only some vague hint of the Holy Father's displeasure, and are reassured by the open church and the promise of Mass and benediction.
It is those others who make trouble; they come, from time to time,—by twos and threes, never alone,—and read for themselves, with lowering brows, but ask no questions. And sometimes, if they watch too silently, the courteous friar who has graciously interpreted the message which is above the heads of the crowd, exchanges a glance of intelligence with some gay young signor who belongs to the great army of secret service—as revealed to the friar on guard by the password of the day; and the sullen-browed group is courteously accosted by the young noble—"Excuse me, signori, you are strangers in Venice; a gondola is waiting to conduct you to the palace."