Peschiera himself; but when the Italians in his train also thronged
towards the sides of the boat, two of the sailors got before them, and
let go the rope, while the other two plied their oars vigorously, and
pulled back towards shore. The Italians burst into an amazed and
indignant volley of execra tions. "Silence," said the sailor who had
stood by the plank, "we obey orders. If you are not quiet, we shall
upset the boat. We can swim; Heaven and Monsignore San Giacomo pity you
if you cannot!"

Meanwhile, as Peschiera leaped upon deck, a flood of light poured upon
him from lifted torches. That light streamed full on the face and form
of a man of commanding stature, whose arm was around Violante, and whose
dark eyes flashed upon the count more luminously than the torches. On
one side this man stood the Austrian prince; on the other side (a cloak,
and a profusion of false dark locks, at his feet) stood Lord L'Estrange,
his arms folded, and his lips curved by a smile in which the ironical
humour native to the man was tempered with a calm and supreme disdain.
The count strove to speak, but his voice faltered.

All around him looked ominous and hostile. He saw many Italian faces,
but they scowled at him with vindictive hate; in the rear were English
mariners, peering curiously over the shoulders of the foreigners, and
with a broad grin on their open countenances. Suddenly, as the count
thus stood perplexed, cowering, stupefied, there burst from all the
Italians present a hoot of unutterable scorn, "Il traditore! il
traditore!" (the traitor! the traitor!)

The count was brave, and at the cry he lifted his head with a certain
majesty.