Let us now return to Olivolo, to the altar-place of the church
of San Pietro di Castella, and resume the progress of that
strangely-mingled ceremonial — mixed sunshine and sadness —
which was broken by the passionate conduct of Giovanni Gradenigo.
We left the poor, crushed Francesca, in a state of

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unconsciousness, in the arms of her sympathizing kindred. For a
brief space the impression was a painful one upon the hearts of
the vast assembly; but as the deep organ rolled its ascending
anthems, the emotion subsided. The people had assembled for
pleasure and an agreeable spectacle; and though sympathizing,
for a moment, with the pathetic fortunes of the sundered lovers,
quite as earnestly as it is possible for mere lookers-on to do, they
were not to be disappointed in the objects for which they came.
The various shows of the assemblage — the dresses, the jewels,
the dignitaries, and the beauties — were quite enough to divert
the feelings of a populace, at all times notorious for its levities,
from a scene which, however impressive at first, was becoming
a little tedious. Sympathies are very good and proper things;
but the world seldom suffers them to occupy too much of its
time. Our Venetians did not pretend to be any more humane
than the rest of the great family; and the moment that Francesca
had fainted, and Giovanni had disappeared, the multitude
began to express their impatience of any further delay by all the
means in their possession. There was no longer a motive to resist
their desires, and simply reserving the fate of the poor Francesca
to the last, or until she should sufficiently recover to be
fully conscious of the sacrifice which she was about to make, the
ceremonies were begun. There was a political part to be played
by the doge, in which the people took particular interest; and
to behold which, indeed, was the strongest reason of their impatience.
The government of Venice, as was remarked by quaint
and witty James Howell, was a compound thing, mixed of all
kinds of governments, and might be said to be composed of “a
grain of monarchy, a dose of democracy, and a dram, if not an
ounce of optimacy.” It was in regard to this dose of democracy
that the government annually assigned marriage portions to
twelve young maidens, selected from the great body of the people,
of those not sufficiently opulent to secure husbands, or find
the adequate means for marriage, without this help. To bestow
these maidens upon their lovers, and with them the portions
allotted by the state, constituted the first, and in the eyes of the
masses, the most agreeable part of the spectacle. The doge,
on this occasion, who was the thrice-renowned Pietro Candiano,
“did his spiriting gently,” and in a highly edifying manner.

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The bishop bestowed his blessings, and confirmed by the religious,
the civil rites, which allied the chosen couples. To these
succeeded the voluntary parties, if we may thus presume upon a
distinction between the two classes, which we are yet not sure
that we have a right to make. The high-born and the wealthy,
couple after couple, now approached the altar, to receive the
final benediction which committed them to hopes of happiness
which it is not in the power of any priesthood to compel. No
doubt there was a great deal of hope among the parties, and
we have certainly no reason to suppose that happiness did not
follow in every instance.

But there is poor Francesca Ziani. It is now her turn. Her
cruel parents remain unsubdued and unsoftened by her deep and
touching sorrows. She is made to rise, to totter forward to the
altar, scarcely conscious of anything, except, perhaps, that the
worthless, but wealthy, Ulric Barberigo is at her side. Once
more the mournful spectacle restores to the spectators all their
better feelings. They perceive, they feel the cruelty of that sacrifice
to which her kindred are insensible. In vain do they
murmur “shame!” In vain does she turn her vacant, wild, but
still expressive eyes, expressive because of their very soulless
vacancy, to that stern, ambitious mother, whose bosom no longer
responds to her child with the true maternal feeling. Hopeless
of help from that quarter, she lifts her eyes to heaven, and, no
longer listening to the words of the holy man, she surrenders
herself only to despair.

Is it Heaven that hearkens to her prayer? Is it the benevolent
office of an angel that bursts the doors of the church at the
very moment when she is called upon to yield that response
which dooms her to misery for ever? To her ears, the thunders
which now shake the church were the fruits of Heaven's benignant
interposition. The shrieks of women on every hand — the
oaths and shouts of fierce and insolent authority — the clamors of
men — the struggles and cries of those who seek safety in flight,
or entreat for mercy — suggest no other idea to the wretched Francesca,
than that she is saved from the embraces of Ulric Barberigo.
She is only conscious that, heedless of her, and of the
entreaties of her mother, he is the first to endeavor selfishly to
save himself by flight. But her escape from Barberigo is only

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the prelude to other embraces. She knows not, unhappy child,
that she is an object of desire to another, until she finds herself
lifted in the grasp of Pietro Barbaro, the terrible chief of the Istriote
pirates. He and his brothers have kept their pledges to
one another, and they have been successful in their prey. Their
fierce followers have subdued to submission the struggles of a
weaponless multitude, who, with horror and consternation, behold
the loveliest of their virgins, the just wedded among them, borne
away upon the shoulders of the pirates to their warlike galleys.
Those who resist them perish. Resistance was hopeless. The
fainting and shrieking women, like the Sabine damsels, are hurried
from the sight of their kinsmen and their lovers, and the
Istriote galleys are about to depart with their precious freight.
Pietro Barbaro, the chief, stands with one foot upon his vessel's
side and the other on the shore. Still insensible, the lovely
Francesca lies upon his breast. At this moment the skirt of his
cloak is plucked by a bold hand. He turns to meet the glance
of the Spanish Gipsy. The old woman leered on him with
eyes that seemed to mock his triumph, even while she appealed
to it.

“Is it not even as I told thee — as I showed thee?” was her
demand.

“It is!” exclaimed the pirate-chief, as he flung her a purse
of gold. “Thou art a true prophetess. Fate has done her
work!”

He was gone; his galley was already on the deep, and he
himself might now be seen kneeling upon the deck of the vessel,
bending over his precious conquest, and striving to bring
back the life into her cheeks.

“Ay, indeed!” muttered the Spanish Gipsy, “thou hast had
her in thy arms, but think not, reckless robber that thou art,
that fate has done its work. The work is but begun. Fate has
kept its word to thee; it is thy weak sense that fancied she had
nothing more to say or do!”

Even as she spoke these words, the galleys of Giovanni
Gradenigo were standing for the Lagune of Caorlo. He had
succeeded in collecting a gallant band of cavaliers who tacitly
yielded him the command. The excitement of action had
served, in some measure, to relieve the distress under which he

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suffered. He was no longer the lover, but the man; nor the
man merely, but the leader of men. Giovanni was endowed for
this by nature. His valor was known. It had been tried upon
the Turk. Now that he was persuaded by the Spanish Gipsy,
whom all believed and feared, that a nameless and terrible danger
overhung his beloved, which was to be met and baffled only
by the course he was pursuing, his whole person seemed to be
informed by a new spirit. The youth, his companions, wondered
to behold the change. There was no longer a dreaminess and
doubt about his words and movements, but all was prompt, energetic,
and directly to the purpose. Giovanni was now the
confident and strong man. Enough for him that there was danger.
Of this he no longer entertained a fear. Whether the
danger that was supposed to threaten Francesca was still suggestive
of a hope — as the prediction of the Spanish Gipsy
might well warrant — may very well be questioned. It was in
the very desperation of his hope, that his energies became at
once equally well-ordered and intense. He prompted to their
utmost the energies of others. He impelled all his agencies to
their best exertions. Oar and sail were busy without intermission,
and soon the efforts of the pursuers were rewarded. A gondola,
bearing a single man, drifted along their path. He was a
fugitive from Olivolo, who gave them the first definite idea of
the foray of the pirates. His tidings, rendered imperfect by his
terrors, were still enough to goad the pursuers to new exertions.
Fortune favored the pursuit. In their haste the pirate galleys
had become entangled in the lagune. The keen eye of Giovanni
was the first to discover them. First one bark, and then
another, hove in sight, and soon the whole piratical fleet were
made out, as they urged their embarrassed progress through the
intricacies of the shallow waters.

“Courage, bold hearts!” cried Giovanni to his people; “they
are ours! We shall soon be upon them. They can not now
escape us!”

The eye of the youthful leader brightened with the expectation
of the struggle. His exulting, eager voice declared the
strength and confidence of his soul, and cheered the souls of all
around him. The sturdy oarsmen “gave way” with renewed
efforts. The knights prepared their weapons for the conflict.

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Giovanni signalled the other galleys by which his own was followed.

“I am for the red flag of Pietro Barbaro himself. I know his
banner. Let your galleys grapple with the rest. Cross their
path — prevent their flight, and bear down upon the strongest.
Do your parts, and fear not but we shall do ours.”

With these brief instructions, our captain led the way with the
Venetian galleys. The conflict was at hand. It came. They
drew nigh and hailed the enemy. The parley was a brief one.
The pirates could hope no mercy, and they asked none. But
few words, accordingly, were exchanged between the parties,
and these were not words of peace.

“Yield thee to the mercy of St. Mark!” was the stern summons
of Giovanni, to the pirate-chief.

“St. Mark's mercy has too many teeth!” was the scornful
reply of the pirate. “The worthy saint must strike well before
Barbaro of Istria sues to him for mercy.”

With the answer the galleys grappled. The Venetians leaped
on board of the pirates, with a fury that was little short of madness.
Their wrath was terrible. Under the guidance of the fierce
Giovanni, they smote with an unforgiving vengeance. It was
in vain that the Istriotes fought as they had been long accustomed.
It needed something more than customary valor to meet
the fury of their assailants. All of them perished. Mercy now
was neither asked nor given. Nor, as it seemed, did the pirates
care to live, when they beheld the fall of their fearful leader.
He had crossed weapons with Giovanni Gradenigo, in whom he
found his fate. Twice, thrice, the sword of the latter drove
through the breast of the pirate. Little did his conqueror conjecture
the import of the few words which the dying chief gasped
forth at his feet, his glazed eyes striving to pierce the deck, as
if seeking some one within.

“I have, indeed, had thee in my arms, but—”

There was no more — death finished the sentence! The victory
was complete, but Giovanni was wounded. Pietro Barbaro
was a fearful enemy. He was conquered, it is true, but he
had made his mark upon his conqueror. He had bitten deep
before he fell.

The victors returned with their spoil. They brought back the

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captured brides in triumph. That same evening preparations
were made to conclude the bridal ceremonies which the morning
had seen so fearfully arrested. With a single exception, the
original distribution of the “brides” was persevered in. That
exception, as we may well suppose, was Francesca Ziani. It
was no longer possible for her unnatural parents to withstand
the popular sentiment. The doge himself, Pietro Candiano,
was particularly active in persuading the reluctant mother to
submit to what was so evidently the will of destiny. But for
the discreditable baseness and cowardice of Ulric Barberigo, it is
probable she never would have yielded. But his imbecility and
unmanly terror in the moment of danger, had been too conspicuous.
Even his enormous wealth could not save him from the
shame that followed; and, however unwillingly, the parents of
Francesca consented that she should become the bride of Giovanni,
as the only proper reward for the gallantry which had
saved her, and so many more, from shame.

But where was Giovanni? His friends have been despatched
for him; why comes he not? The maid, now happy beyond
her hope, awaits him at the altar. And still he comes not. Let
us go back to the scene of action in the moment of his victory over
the pirate-chief. Barbaro lies before him in the agonies of death.
His sword it is which has sent the much-dreaded outlaw to his
last account. But he himself is wounded — wounded severely,
but not mortally, by the man whom he has slain. At this moment
he received a blow from the axe of one of the brothers of
Barbaro. He had strength left barely to behold and to shout
his victory, when he sank fainting upon the deck of the pirate
vessel. His further care devolved upon his friend, Nicolo, who
had followed his footsteps closely through all the paths of danger.
In a state of stupor he lies upon the couch of Nicolo, when
the aged prophetess, the “Spanish Gipsy,” appeared beside his
bed.

“He is called,” she said. “The doge demands his presence.
They will bestow upon him his bride, Francesca Ziani. You
must bear him thither.”

The surgeon shook his head.

“It may arouse him,” said Nicolo. “We can bear him thither
on a litter, so that he shall feel no pain.”

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“It were something to wake him from this apathy,” mused
the surgeon. “Be it as thou wilt.”

Thus, grievously wounded, was the noble Giovanni borne into
the midst of the assembly, for each member of which he had
suffered and done so much. The soft music which played
around, awakened him. His eyes unclosed to discover the
lovely Francesca, tearful, but hopeful, bending fondly over him.
She declared herself his. The voice of the doge confirmed the
assurance; and the eyes of the dying man brightened into the
life of a new and delightful consciousness. Eagerly he spoke;
his voice was but a whisper.

“Make it so, I pray thee, that I may live!”

The priest drew nigh with the sacred unction. The marriage
service was performed, and the hands of the two were
clasped in one.

“Said I not?” demanded an aged woman, who approached
the moment after the ceremonial, and whose face was beheld by
none but him whom she addressed. “She is thine!”

The youth smiled, but made no answer. His hand drew that
of Francesca closer. She stooped to his kiss, and whispered
him, but he heard her not. With the consciousness of the
sweet treasure that he had won after such sad denial, the sense
grew conscious no longer — the lips of the youth were sealed
for ever. The young Giovanni, the bravest of the Venetian
youth, lay lifeless in the embrace of the scarcely more living
Francesca. It was a sad day, after all, in Venice, since its triumph
was followed by so great a loss; but the damsels of the
ocean city still declare that the lovers were much more blest in
this fortune, than had they survived for the embrace of others
less beloved.

“Have I not read something like this story in a touching and
romantic episode given in the `Italy' of Rogers?” asked Salina
Burroughs.

“Yes! Rogers got it from the history. It is one of those
incidents which enrich and enliven for romance the early progress
of most states and nations that ever arrived at character
and civilization. Of course, like the famous legends of infant
Rome, it undergoes the artist touch of successive historians all

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of whom, in early periods, exercised in some degree the privileges
of the artist, if not the romancer.”

“The event occurs in the first periods of Venetian story,
somewhere about A. D. 932, the reigning doge being Candiano
the Second. It is good material for the dramatist. I should
commend it to Mr. Boker, as the subject of an operatic melodrama.
In the hands of our young friend Marvel, it could be
wrought into a very pretty and delicate and dreamy work of
sentimental fiction.”

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