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Updated: June 25, 2025
A Venetian in London wrote home to say that 'this fellow-citizen of ours, who went from Bristol in quest of new islands, is Zuan Caboto, whom the English now call a great admiral. He dresses in silk; they pay him great honour; and everyone runs after him like mad. The Spanish ambassador was full of suspicion, in spite of the fact that Cabot had not gone south.
But when it was dark at last, Pasquale cast off and headed the skiff for Murano. Jacopo Contarini's luck at dice had changed of late, and his friends no longer spoke of losing like him, but of winning as he did, on almost every throw. "Nevertheless," said the big Foscari to Zuan Venier, "his love affairs seem to prosper! The Georgian is as beautiful as ever, and he is going to marry a rich wife."
Meanwhile the friends assembled in the room downstairs had been occupied for a long time in hearing what Zuan Venier had to say to Jacopo Contarini, concerning the latter's treatment of Zorzi. For Venier had kept his word, and as soon as all were present he had boldly spoken his mind, in a tone which his friends were not accustomed to hear.
At this juncture Zorzi heard the rattling of dice, and looking down the table he saw that two of the company were already throwing against each other. In a few minutes he found himself sitting alone near Zuan Venier, all the others having either begun to play themselves, or being engaged in wagering on the play of others. "And you, sir?" inquired Zorzi of his neighbour.
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.
"Any woman would, I should think." "I suppose so," answered Contarini complacently. "It is not my fault if they do." "Nor your misfortune," added Fosoari, with as much gravity as before. Zuan Venier had not joined in the banter, which seemed to him to be of the most atrocious taste. He had liked Zorzi and had just made up his mind to go to Murano the next day and find him out.
"Hist, Silvestro," whispered one, with a nudge; "did he bleed much?" "Cosa terribile a flood!" Silvestro spread out his hands. "Cristo! The glory of it!" "Valentino, I scrag you, my man, if you speak of the Jew till we are out of the Porta San Zuan," growled Petruccio, the leader: "Avanti!" And the drab-coloured crew moved off towards the sunset.
Zuan Venier's visit had recalled very clearly the obligations by which he had solemnly bound himself, and which he honestly meant to fulfil; and apart from them, when he tried to reason about his love, he could make it seem absurd enough that he should dream of winning Marietta for his wife. But love itself does not argue.
"If they are all like Contarini, I do not mind twenty of them or so," laughed Aristarchi. "They must have more than a thousand gold ducats amongst them. That would be worth taking." "They are not all like Contarini," said Arisa. "There is Zuan Venier, for instance." "Zuan Venier? Is he one of them? I have heard of him.
The city fairly hummed with him; nobody talked of anything but the dead Jew. The goatherds, coming in by the Porta San Zuan a day later, were shrewdly scrutinised by the Guard.
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