The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1898-04-10
THE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY. APRIL 10, 1898


OF Sunday There had been unbroken sun
/ shine since the dawn a day full of the
I glory of an Italian sprng. You heard the
. barcarollfs love songs from many a dark
: waterway when niglt fell. There was
/ music of bells floating over a lagoon, a
vision of distant islands canopied with
/ young leaves, of whitened mountains
/ crowned with lustrous lights. of hori-
/ zon now Infinitely blue, now crimson, now
dim with the glory of the purple arcs of
| evening. When al last, the sun sank be-
/ low Chioggia and the rolling mists settled
! upon the lagoon, a sea of ffeecy pillows
/ was spangled with the heck of the moons
rays; golden sea danced to the music of
the wind. This was the hour when old
! Silvestro should have come to me- The
/ great clock had struck S. the flowers were
| white and ordorous upon my table, the
| lights fell soft upon the crystal TASKS of
ruby wine. We lacked only our guests.
The clock struck quarter past eight
| and still old Silvestro did not come. Twice
l went out upon my balcony to peer into
/ his room; butAneither he nor Blanca was
there. Orso, the man from Rome, appear
! ed 10 be the only occupant of the cham
! Der. He was writing at a table when first
| l saw him; he was still writing when the
/ clock struck quarter past the hour. Had
] he not been a stranger TO me, l might
have spoken a word through the window
/ TO ask of his host and of Blanca. AS it was
] / began 10 think the whole circumstance
/ one of the strangest I had known. Here
| was dinner ready to be served, Ottone
ready to serve H. the candle lighted, the
| TASKS uncorked--yet of those for whom all
! this was done there was no sign. / asked
myself If they played some Jest; said that
| Blanca would come running up the stairs
| presently, breathless, and painting apollo
| sies. The clock struck nine, and still my
! dinner waited.
The last note of the bell had scarce gone
+ echoing over the water when l called TO
! Ottone meaning to send him, for the sec
ond time, across 10 old Celsis house. 1t
/ was evident now that something had hap
| pened. The fact of the man Orso writing
! diligently at the table perplexed me. But
| this perpleXity was as nothing to the
! strange suspicion and dread which poss-
| essed me when. upon calling for my SER
| want l had no answer. The man had van
ished as mysteriously as Blanca and her
| father Though the stairs echoed my sum-
mons, echo was the only answer vouCh-
| safed to me. was alone with the candles
and the flowers and the gaudy draperies Of
the feast.
There are some situations in life, situa-
! tons of danger or of peril, which a man
refuses to take seriously. l have known
one or TWO in the course of a changing
| first thought, so ridiculous as the one l
faced that night in Venice.
Convinced on reflection, that little Bian-
ca had contriVed a jest, and having the
| poorest appreciat ton of its excellence, de-
| termined to go myself into her house and
| to seek for her1 thought it strange no
| longer that the Man from Rome should be
writing at his table That was part of
their plot I said that little Blanca was
! watching me when l entered the great
| room and walked across it to speak to him
| whose name was then upon every tongue
| in Venice. 1 could hear, in fancy her
| sweet laughter when, standing little way
| from the mans chair, L spoke to him
| once
1 say once-fon, in truth, had scarcely
! spoken the word of greeting when it
changed upon my lips to an exclamation
of woe and horror. In that moment l saw
! that Orso Celsi had written his last let
ter; the hand which held the pen in dread
! full derision was stiff and powerless; the
/ eyes which hooked down. upon the paper
would gee no more; the shead which had
| fallen forward upon the breast would never
! again be raised. The Man from Rome was
dead, and the stietto with which they had
stabbed him was still in his body.
| For some instants stood, almost blinded
! by the sight of the grim figure, still and
! white and rigid in death. There was no
sound in all the Ralazzo Celsi to stir my
| feet or break the SPELL / heard the waters
| tapping outside, the distant cry of boat
| man. the music of voice; but in that
room Death reigned and no voice answer
ed. Ard then l recalled the words of old
| SilVestro-'T will save my people," And L
thought that he had kept his promise TO
his children and that Venice would see him
| no more.
1t is a year ago now since 1 saw Blanca
| Celsi Idle to say that the events of the
terrible night had been blotted from my
| mind or that | did not think often with
| feelings of a deep and lasting affection
! of the little Italian girl whose love L had
won during those happy weeks in Venice.
! But l had no thought of Blanca that
night in March when, CHANGING to pass
the gaunt Italian church in Hatton gar
/ den, felt a hand upon my shoulder and
turned around to see an addressed pitful
creature regarding me with wistful eyes.
''You forget me, Signore," she cried
in broken English. "Oh, but 1 shall re-
| member always. DO not turn from me
| we are not what you think-it was an
other who killed Orso Celsi."
Another" 1 exclaimed.
YES, yes" she said, quickly, your SER
want Ottone-he had a brother at the ar
senal We did not know then-but now.
God pity us, it is too Late
The woman, for such Blanca had be-
| come, released my arm and darted across
| the street. The dim light of evening
soon hid her from my sight, but not be-
fore l had seen her take the hand of an
old man who waited for her, and lead him
! into the shadows.
| And as the woman went. I shuddered
| to think that I had once held her in nv
| arms.
| (The End)
/