One Oneolo, the successor of that Candiano, of whose tragic end I have already written, was elevated to the Dogeship in spite of himself, while the aftermath of the hurricane that had destroyed Candiano was threatening to destroy Venice; outside influences, too, were adding their quota to his heavy responsibility, for the dower of Candiano’s wife had to be repaid and the Emperor was behind her. The Ducal Palace and St. Mark’s had to be rebuilt, and he was a poor man, but, despite his poverty, he surrendered a very large part of his personal property to the building of St. Mark’s, and sent far and wide for workmen worthy of the task. He did not do anything by halves, for he gave to the Church some of its most beautiful possessions, and raised a great hospital opposite the ducal palace, besides. He did not have much political peace during the time that he was striving so hard and sacrificing so much for Venice and the Venetians, for the Candianos, recovering their balance, plotted against him ceaselessly; but he seems to have borne his trials with a strength and a constancy hardly of this world, consoling himself with daily visits to the poor and afflicted and the joy of giving to them everything that he could spare—and, very often, a good deal that he could not. He met with small encouragement from any one. The people were not enthusiastic over his diligence in repairing the damage which they had done, and only the very poor ever really loved him, while the great Houses were monuments of silly wickedness and selfishness from whom nothing useful could be hoped or expected; so that it can be easily understood that the advent into his life of a really good and intelligent person must have come near to unsettling his mind for the time being. It happened that among the crowds of pious visitors to the shrine of St. Mark, during the second year of his reign, there was a certain Frenchman, Abbot of a monastery in Aquitania, and, the instant attraction of kindred souls drawing them to one another, the Abbot became the Doge’s confessor, counsellor, and friend. When, at the end of the day, his last visitor dismissed, his last piece of business despatched, Oneolo could close the doors of his palace upon the world, one can imagine the relief and joy with which he would draw up his chair beside the Abbot, and lighten his heart of all the accumulated resentments, fears, and worries of the day, immersing himself in the priest’s description of the holy sweetness and sanctified calm of a monk’s life. Oneolo was a born monk, and he must have felt, as he sat and listened, much as a soul in the purifying fires of purgatory may feel when the gates, far above him, are opened for a moment to allow some fortunate soul to creep in, and it catches between the opening and the closing a sight of the Heavenly City and obtains a breath of the perfumes of the Celestial Rose Garden.