The good sisters
of our school have often told us that 't is better to be a beggar
than a dullard; and sure yon prince, as you do say he is, looketh
to be no dolt. But ah, see there!" she cried, leaning far over
the gayly draped balcony; "see, he can well use his fists, can he
not! Nay, though, 't is a shame so to beset him, say I. Why
should our lads so misuse a stranger and a prince?"
It was the Feast Day of St. Mark, one of the jolliest of the
old-time holidays of Venice, that wonderful City of the Sea,
whose patron and guardian St. Mark, the apostle, was supposed to
be. Gondolas, rich with draperies of every hue that completely
concealed their frames of sombre black, shot in and out, and up
and down all the water-streets of the beautiful city; while
towering palace and humbler dwelling alike were gay with gorgeous
hangings and fluttering streamers.
In noticeable contrast with all the brilliant costumes and
laughing faces around him was the lad who just now seemed in so
dire a strait. He had paused to watch one of the passing pageants
from the steps of the Palazzo Cornaro, quite near the spot where,
a century later, the famous bridge known as the Rialto spanned
the Street of the Nobles, or Grand Canal--one of the most notable
spots in the history of Venice the Wonderful.
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