"One is enough, Piero," she said. "And for the festa of San Pietro in
Castello--never, never name it to me!"

"Santa Maria!" her companion ejaculated under his breath; "it is the
women, the gentle _donzelle_, who are hard!"

He stood, tall, handsome, well-made, swaying lightly with the motion of
the gondola, which seemed to float as in a dream to the ripple and lap
of the water; the blue of his shirt had changed to gray in the twilight,
the black cap and sash of the "Nicolotti" accentuated the lines of the
strong, lithe figure as he sprang forward on the sloping foot-rest of
his gondola with that perfect grace and ease which proved him master of
a craft whose every motion is a harmony. If he were proud of belonging
to the Nicolotti, that most powerful faction of the populace, he knew
that they were regarded by the government as the aristocrats of the
people.

Marina arranged the child's covering in silence, and stooped her face
wistfully to touch his cheek, but she did not turn her head to look at
the man behind her.

"L'amor zè fato per chi lo sa fare,"

he sang in the low, slow chant of the familiar folk-song, the rhythm
blending perfectly with the movement of the boat in which these two were
faring. His voice was pleasanter in singing, and song is almost a
needful expression of the content of motion in Venice--the necessary
complement of life to the gondolier, a song might mean nothing more. But
Piero sang more slowly than his wont, charging the words with meaning,
yet it did not soften her.