adventure.

Every thing chimed in with such a humor in this old mermaid of a city.
My suite of apartments were in a proud, melancholy palace on the grand
canal, formerly the residence of a Magnifico, and sumptuous with the
traces of decayed grandeur. My gondolier was one of the shrewdest of
his class, active, merry, intelligent, and, like his brethren, secret
as the grave; that is to say, secret to all the world except his
master. I had not had him a week before he put me behind all the
curtains in Venice. I liked the silence and mystery of the place, and
when I sometimes saw from my window a black gondola gliding
mysteriously along in the dusk of the evening, with nothing visible but
its little glimmering lantern, I would jump into my own zenduletto, and
give a signal for pursuit. But I am running away from my subject with
the recollection of youthful follies, said the Baronet, checking
himself; "let me come to the point."

Among my familiar resorts was a Cassino under the Arcades on one side
of the grand square of St. Mark. Here I used frequently to lounge and
take my ice on those warm summer nights when in Italy every body lives
abroad until morning. I was seated here one evening, when a group of
Italians took seat at a table on the opposite side of the saloon. Their
conversation was gay and animated, and carried on with Italian vivacity
and gesticulation.

I remarked among them one young man, however, who appeared to take no
share, and find no enjoyment in the conversation; though he seemed to
force himself to attend to it. He was tall and slender, and of
extremely prepossessing appearance. His features were fine, though
emaciated. He had a profusion of black glossy hair that curled lightly