Along the narrow margin which lay between the houses and the
canal they marched, followed by a great multitude of silent people.
"It is a dirge for the dead that they sing," said Dame Carleon, "and yet
they bury no man. Oh! months ago I would have escaped from this city,
and we had leave to go. But then came orders from the King that we must
bide here because of his creditors. So here we bide for good and all.
Hush! I hear my husband coming; say nothing of my talk, it angers him.
Rest you well, Sir Hugh."
"Truly that lady has a cheerful mind," grumbled Grey Dick, when she had
gone, leaving them alone upon the balcony. "Ten minutes more of her and
I think I should go hang myself, or squat upon these stones and howl at
the moon like a dog or those whimpering friars."
Hugh made no answer, for he was thinking of his father's tale of the
prophecies of Sir Andrew Arnold, and how they grew sad in Dunwich also.
In truth, like Lady Carleon, he found it in his heart to wish that he
too were clear of Venice, which he had reached with so much toil.
"Bah!" he said presently, "this place stinks foully. It puts me in mind
of some woman, most beauteous indeed, but three days dead. Let us go
in."
On the following morning, while they sat at breakfast, there came a
messenger from the Doge of Venice, whose name Hugh learned was Andrea
Dandolo, bearing a letter sealed with a great seal.
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