"What can we say?" countered Villehardouin. "Lord Doge, we have done what we may. We lack more than a third of the number of men who agreed to sail with the host. For Christ's gentle sake have pity on us, and do not prevent us from doing our devoir against the Saracens. It would be foul shame an such a well-appointed host were to be held back for want of but 34,000 marks." A murmur of assent rose from the crowd. "You say rightly," approved the Doge. "'Twere ill to have the world think Venice close as a Jew money-lender to the letter of her bargains. Now, look you, my lords and barons, I have somewhat to put before you. 'Tis plain you cannot pay more than you have, and it is no fault of yours that you have been betrayed by those you thought your friends. We would not be the means of defrauding you from carrying out your service to God, but we must gain back the money we have expended for naught." "That is reasonable, Lord Doge," agreed Villehardouin, seeing that some answer was expected. "We are of the same mind, then," the Doge replied. "Here are our terms: Know, lords of the host, that the King of Hungary has taken from us Zara in Sclavonia on the opposite shore of the Adriatic Sea, which is a fair, strong city. Do you, therefore, tarry on your way to Outremer and lend us your aid to reconquer the city for us, seeing that it is rightfully ours. For this we will remit to you the 34,000 marks." An outburst of comment by many tongues greeted this proposition. The Crusaders closed around Villehardouin in an animated discussion, some plainly favourably disposed, others rebellious and perturbed. The Venetians swayed back and forth to the accompaniment of a low murmur of excited speculation. But amid all the contentious clamour of debate, the old Doge sat erect on his throne, his sightless eyes staring across the thronged Square as though he dwelt detached in some other world. The calm, impassive face, with its air of high purpose and proud confidence, fascinated Hugh. He was brought back to the present by Matteo's fist in his ribs. "To your left," hissed the jongleur in his ear. "Over those heads there are some old friends of ours." Hugh looked and saw Helena Comnena and her father, standing in a group of richly-garbed Venetian nobles. Her long-lashed eyes were raised to his, and she gave him a quizzical smile, half mockery, half recognition. "I see naught extraordinary in their being here," he answered curtly, "By St. James, I would take oath the one-half of Venice is about us!" But he could not keep his eyes from wandering back to the dark, stately figure a few ells distant. He was pondering again her farewell to him, when a man stepped from behind the Cæsar and spoke to Helena. Hugh felt a quiver run through him from heel to crown. The new-comer was Mocenigo. "Quick!" he cried to Matteo. "Do my eyes see true? Is not that Andrea Mocenigo, the Emperor's----" Matteo compressed his lips in a low whistle.