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I can take a message to him, but I am not sure that he will see any one to-day." Aristarchi imagined that Beroviero made himself inaccessible, in order to increase the general idea of his wealth and importance. He resolved to convey a strong impression of his own standing. "I am the chief partner in a great house of Greek merchants settled in Palermo," he said.
The broad parchment was unrolled in his hands and his eyes were puzzling over the Latin words and the unfamiliar abbreviations; on one side of him stood old Beroviero, reading over his shoulder with absorbed interest, and on the other was Zuan Venier, glancing at the document with the careless certainty of one who knows what to expect.
"Once in the annals of the Republic there is noted such a marriage; a daughter of Murano, of the house of Beroviero nay, not so beautiful as Marina wedded with one of our noblest names; and the children, by decree of the Senate, were written every one in the 'Libro d'Oro."
At present nothing more could be done, for Zorzi has disappeared altogether, and old Beroviero was much inclined to share his son's opinion that the fugitive was already on his way to Milan, or Florence, where the possession of the secrets would insure him a large fortune, very greatly to the injury of Beroviero and all the glass-workers of Murano.
Giovanni went to the other end of the annealing oven, and came back a moment later carrying the iron tray on which stood the pieces Zorzi had made on the previous morning. Beroviero looked at them critically, tried their weight, and noticed their transparency. "That is not my glass," he said in a tone of decision. "No," said Giovanni, "I saw that it was not your ordinary glass.
He was not afraid, for he was not easily frightened, but he knew that his whole future life was in the balance, and he longed for the decisive moment to come. He had surrendered on the previous day, and Beroviero had given a large bond for his appearance. There were witnesses of all that had happened.
Zorzi was silent, for the future looked black enough. He already saw himself shut up in the glass-house for two long months, or not much less, as effectually separated from Marietta by the narrow canal as if an ocean were between them. She would never cross over and spend an hour in the little garden then, and she would be under the care of Giovanni Beroviero, who hated him, as he well knew.
"No, I am not!" interrupted Marietta firmly. "I would rather not marry at all " "Not marry!" repeated Beroviero, interrupting her in a tone of profound stupefaction, and standing still in the sun as he spoke. "Why what is the matter?" "Is it so strange that I should be contented with my girl's life?" asked Marietta.
"It would be like the clever scoundrel to have copied what he wanted and then to have put the book back into the hiding-place," said Giovanni, pausing. "Do not waste words, my son!" cried Beroviero in the greatest anxiety. "Here! This is the stone. Get the crowbar in at this side. So. Now we will both heave. There! Wedge the stone up with that bit of wood. That will do.
"I will not marry him," she said at last, with strong emphasis, and almost defiantly. "My child," Beroviero answered gravely, "you do not know what you are saying." "I do!" cried Marietta with some indignation. "I have thought of it a long time. I was very wrong not to make up my mind from the beginning, and I ask your forgiveness.
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