Michael had unconsciously readjusted several times already in pain his love for Fay. He did it again during that first year in prison. He saw that she was not capable of love as he understood it. He saw that she was not capable of a great sacrifice for his sake. The sacrifice which would have exonerated him had been altogether too great. Yes, he saw that. It had been cruel of him to think even for a moment that she might make it. What woman would! His opinions respecting the whole sex had to be gently lowered to meet the occasion. Nevertheless she _did_ love him in her own flower-like way. She would certainly have made a _small_ sacrifice for his sake. His love was tenderly moved and re-niched into a smaller demand on hers, one that she could have met without too much distress. His bruised mind comforted itself with the conviction that if a slight sacrifice on her part could have saved him she would indubitably have made it. After a year in prison the news tardily reached Michael through his friend, the doctor, that the duke was dead. The news, so long expected, gave him a pang when it did at last arrive. He had liked the duke. For a moment they had been very near to each other. But now, _now_, Fay would release him. It would still be painful to her to do so, but in a much lesser degree than heretofore. She would have to endure certain obvious, though groundless, inferences from which her delicacy would shrink. But she was free to marry him now, and that made all the difference as to the explanation she would have to give. A little courage was all that was needed, just enough to make a small sacrifice for him. She would certainly have that amount. The other had been too much to expect. _But this_---- Michael leaned his forehead against the stone wall of his cell, and sobbed for joy. Oh! God was good. God was merciful. He knew how much he could bear. He knew that he was but dust. He had not tried him beyond his strength. Michael was suffused with momentary shame at the joy that the death of his friend had brought him. Nevertheless, like a mountain spring that will not be denied, joy ever rose and rose afresh within him. Fay and he could marry now. The thought of her, the hungered craving for her was no longer a sin. It was Sunday evening. The myriad bells of Venice were borne in a floating gossamer tangle of sound across the water. Joy, overwhelming, suffocating joy inundated him. He stumbled to his feet, and clung convulsively to the bars of his narrow window. How often he had heard the bells, but never with this voice! He looked out across the wide water with its floating islands, each with its little campanile. His eyes followed the sails of the fishing boats from Chioggia, floating like scarlet and orange butterflies in the pearl haze of the lagoon.