The Dalmatians were drawn up near the sea, in a manner to inclose the two granite columns of the Piazzetta. Their grave and disciplined faces fronted inwards towards the African pillars, those well known landmarks of death. A few grim warriors of higher rank paced the flags before the troops, while a dense crowd filled the exterior space. By special favor more than a hundred fishermen were grouped within the armed men, witnesses that their class had revenge. Between the lofty pedestals of St. Theodore and the winged lion lay the block and the axe, the basket and the saw-dust; the usual accompaniments of justice in that day. By their side stood the executioner. At length a movement in the living mass drew every eye towards the gate of the palace. A murmur arose, the multitude wavered, and a small body of the Sbirri came into view. Their steps were swift like the march of destiny. The Dalmatians opened to receive these ministers of fate into their bosom, and closing their ranks again, appeared to preclude the world with its hopes from the condemned. On reaching the block between the columns the Sbirri fell off in files, waiting at a little distance, while Jacopo was left before the engines of death attended by his ghostly counsellor, the Carmelite. The action left them open to the gaze of the throng. Father Anselmo was in the usual attire of a bare-footed friar of his order. The cowl of the holy man was thrown back, exposing his mortified lineaments and his self-examining eye to those around. The expression of his countenance was that of bewildered uncertainty, relieved by frequent but fitful glimmerings of hope. Though his lips were constant in prayer, his looks wandered, by an irrepressible impulse, from one window of the Doge's palace to another. He took his station near the condemned, however, and thrice crossed himself fervently. Jacopo had tranquilly placed his person before the block. His head was bare, his cheek colorless, his throat and neck uncovered from the shoulders, his body in its linen, and the rest of his form was clad in the ordinary dress of a gondolier. He kneeled with his face bowed to the block, repeated a prayer, and rising he faced the multitude with dignity and composure. As his eye moved slowly over the array of human countenances by which he was environed, a hectic glowed on his features, for not one of them all betrayed sympathy in his sufferings. His breast heaved, and those nearest to his person thought the self-command of the miserable man was about to fail him. The result disappointed expectation. There was a shudder, and the limbs settled into repose. "Thou hast looked in vain among the multitude for a friendly eye?" said the Carmelite, whose attention had been drawn to the convulsive movement. "None here have pity for an assassin." "Remember thy Redeemer, son. He suffered ignominy and death for a race that denied his Godhead, and derided his sorrows."