lines of windows and balconies seemed lost; they stood out more
clearly in the buildings that were wrapped in a light veil of unbroken
shadow. The gondolas, with their little red lamps, seemed to flit past
more noiselessly and swiftly than ever; their steel beaks flashed
mysteriously, mysteriously their oars rose and fell over the ripples
stirred by little silvery fish; here and there was heard the brief,
subdued call of a gondolier (they never sing now); scarcely another
sound was to be heard. The hotel where Insarov and Elena were staying
was on the _Riva dei Schiavoni_; before they reached it they left the
gondola, and walked several times round the Square of St. Mark, under
the arches, where numbers of holiday makers were gathered before the
tiny cafes. There is a special sweetness in wandering alone with one
you love, in a strange city among strangers; everything seems
beautiful and full of meaning, you feel peace and goodwill to all men,
you wish all the same happiness that fills your heart. But Elena could
not now give herself up without a care to the sense of her happiness;
her heart could not regain its calm after the emotions that had so
lately shaken it; and Insarov, as he walked by the palace of the
Doges, pointed without speaking to the mouths of the Austrian cannons,
peeping out from the lower arches, and pulled his hat down over his
eyes. By now he felt tired, and, with a last glance at the church of
St. Mark, at its cupola, where on the bluish lead bright patches of
phosphorescent light shone in the rays of the moon, they turned slowly
homewards.

Their little room looked out on to the lagoon, which stretches from
the _Riva del Schiavoni_ to the Giudecca. Almost facing their hotel
rose the slender tower of S. George; high against the sky on the right
shone the golden ball of the Customs House; and, decked like a bride,
stood the loveliest of the churches, the _Redentore_ of Palladio;