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added rather hastily, "a faithful watch-dog."

Omobono's appearance that morning did not suggest the guardian of the flock, the shepherd's shaggy friend. Not in the least; but he was pleased, and when he was told that he was to pack his belongings and make ready to leave Constantinople for a trip to Venice his delight actually brought a Uttle color into his gray cheeks.

"And my I inquire, sir," he began, "about the"—he paused and looked significantly at the ceiling, to indicate the upper story of the house—"about the lady?" he added, finishing his question at last.

"She goes with us," answered Zeno briefly.

"Yes, sir. But may I ask whether it will be part of my duty to be responsible for her?"

"You?" Zeno looked at the little man in undisguised astonishment.

"I mean, sir, on Messer Marco Pesaro's account. I had understood——"

"No," said Zeno, "you had not understood."

"But then, sir——"

"Omobono, I have often warned you against your curiosity."

"Yes, sir. I pray every day for strength to withstand it. Nevertheless, though I know it is a sin it sometimes leads me to learn things which are of use. I do not think that if you knew what I know, sir, you would contemplate the possibility of disposing of——"

"You talk too much," said Zeno. "If you have anything to say, then say it. If you have nothing to say, then say nothing. But do not talk. What have you found out?"

Thus deprived of the pleasure of telling a long story, Omobono conscientiously tried to impart his information in the fewest possible words.

"The lady is not called Arethusa, sir. Before she sold herself to save her people from starvation she was called Zoë Rhangabé, the daughter of the Protosparthos who was executed by Andronicus——"

"Rhangabé?" repeated Zeno, not believing him; for it was a great name, and is still.

"Yes, sir. But that was not her name, either, for he and his wife had adopted her because they had no children, but afterwards two boys were born to them——"

"Confound their boys!" interrupted Zeno. "Who is she?"

"Her real name is Bianca Giustiniani; she is a Venetian by birth, and her father and mother died of the plague here soon after she was born. You see, sir, under the circumstances, and although the lady called herself a slave, such a commission as Messer Marco Pesaro's——"

"Omobono," said Zeno, interrupting him again, "get a priest here at once. I am going to be married."

"Married, sir?" The little secretary was aghast.

"Send Vito for the priest!"

And before Omobono could say more, Zeno had left the room.

He found Zoë standing by the open window, and the morning sun was still streaming in. Her hair was not taken up yet, but lay like silk all over her shoulders, still damp from the bath. She was a little pale, as a flower that has blossomed in a dark room, and the rough white silk of the robe she drew closely round her showed by contrast the delicate tint and texture of her skin, and the sweet freshness of the tender and spiritual mouth.

He took her hand and looked at her earnestly before he spoke. Only a night, a day and a night had passed since he had understood what had hidden itself in his heart for weeks. That same truth had stolen into hers, too, but she had known what it meant.

"You kept your secret well," he said—"too well!"

She shook her head, thinking he spoke of her love.

"You knew it long ago," she answered. "And what you did not know, you guessed. You kept yours better far."

"I kept that one from myself, as best I could," said he, understanding what she meant. "I could not keep it for ever! But since we know that we love, our life begins here, and together. Together, because you saved mine—I know everything, for they have told me; and so my life is yours, and yours is mine, because we were born to mate, as falcons mate with falcons, doves with doves, and song-birds with song-birds. Will you come with me?"

She smiled and laid her hand in his.