Chapter III

The devil is credited with building many bridges on the earth; it is hard to know why he should have done so, since waters however wide cannot possibly have been an obstacle in his own path.

But Devil’s Bridges there are, from the Hebrides to the Isles of Greece; the Devil’s Bridge at Torcello has been so called from the height and breadth of its one arch, but there is nothing diabolic or infernal in its appearance; it is of old brick made beautiful in its hues by age, and has many seeding grasses and weeds growing in its crevices. Its banks are rich in grass; in flags, in sea lavender, and about it grow hazel trees and pear trees.

There is nowhere in the world any grass richer than that of Torcello, and forget-me-nots, honeysuckle, and wild roses grow down to the water’s edge and around the hoary stones of the deserted isle.

“What a God-forgotten place!” said a young man as he sprang from a boat on to the bank by the bridge.

“Torcello was the mother of Venice; the daughter has slain her,” replied an older man as he laid down his oars in the boat, and prepared to follow his companion.

His foot trod amongst the hemlock leaves and was entangled by them; he stooped, and his eyes, which were very keen, caught sight of the string of opals.

“A woman’s necklace!” he said, as he drew it out from under the salt seaweed, and the dewy dock leaves. It was discoloured, and had sand and mud on it, and bore little traces of its former beauty; but he recognised that it was a jewel of worth; he perceived, even dulled as they were, that the stones were opals.

“What have you there?” cried the younger man from above on the bank. “The skull of an Archimandrite?”

The other threw the necklace up on to the grass.

“You would have been a fitter finder of a woman’s collar than I am.”

“Opals! The stones of sorrow!” said the younger man, gravely, as he raised it and brushed off the sand. “It has been beautiful,” he added. “It will be so again. It is not really hurt, only a little bruised and tarnished.”

The necklace interested him; he examined it minutely as the sun shone on the links of dimmed gold. It awakened in him an image of the woman who might have possessed and worn it.

“What will you do with it?” he said to his companion, who had mounted on to the bank after securing the boat.

“What does one always do with things found? Send them to the police, I believe.”

“Oh you Goth!” said the younger. “Let us spend our lives in discovering the owner.”

“You can spend yours so if you like, Prince. Mine is already in bond to a severer mistress.”

“Lend me your glass,” said the younger man; the glass was of strong magnifying power; when it was handed to him he looked through it at some little marks on the back of the clasp of the opal collar. “Zaranegra 1770,” he read aloud. “Zaranegra is a Venetian name.”

There was an inscription so minute that to the unaided eye it was invisible; through the glass it was possible to read it. It was this:

NINA DELLA LUCEDIA
CONTESSA ZARANEGRA
_Capo d Anno_
1770.

“Zaranegra!” repeated the younger man. “That is a Venetian name. Lucedia is a name of the Marches of Ancona. There is a Ca’ Zaranegra on the Grand Canal. It is next to the Loredàn. You admired its Moorish windows on the second storey this morning. Carlo Zaranegra died young; he left a widow who is only twenty now. She is a daughter of the Duke of Monfalcone; a family of the Trentino, but pure Italians in blood. Their place is in the mountains above Gorizia. It must be she who owns this necklace, an heirloom probably.”

“Take it to her,” said the finder of it, with indifference. “I cede you my rights.”

The younger laughed.

“Ah! who knows what they may become?”

“Whatever they may become they are yours. I do not appreciate that kind of reward.”

“Really?” said the younger man. “If so I pity you!”

“Nay, I pity you,” said the elder.

The young man still stood with the opals in his hands; with a wisp of grass he had cleared the sand in a measure off them; the pearly softness and the roseate flame of the stones began to show here and there; two alone of their number were missing.

“Come,” said his companion, with impatience. “Put that broken rubbish in your pocket and let us go and see the Cathedral and S. Fosca, for it will soon grow dark.”

They walked along the dyke of turf which traverses the isle, past the low fruit trees and the humble cabins of the few peasants who dwell there; the grass was long and full of ox-eyed daisies, and purple loosestrife, and pink campion. They soon reached the green and quiet place where the sacred buildings of S. Maria and S. Fosca, stand in the solitude of field and sea.

They entered first of all the old church of S. Fosca. The younger man went straight to the altar with uncovered head and knelt before it, a soft and serious look upon his face as his lips moved.

The elder cast a glance, contemptuous and derisive, on him, and turned to look at the five arcades, with their columns, so precious to those who understand the laws of architecture.

He was learned in many things, and architecture and archæology were the studies which were to him pastimes, in the rare hours of recreation which he allowed himself.

“Have you prayed to find the mistress of the opals?” he said to the younger man who, risen from his knees, approached him, a red light of the late afternoon slanting in from an upper window in the apse and falling on his bright hair and beautiful classic face.

The young man coloured.

“I prayed that the stones may bring us no evil,” he said, with ingenuous simplicity. “Laugh as you will, a prayer can never do harm, and you know opals are stones of sorrow.”

“I know you are a credulous child—a superstitious peasant—though you are twenty-four years old and have royal and noble blood in your veins.”

“If you had not saved my life I would throw you into the sea,” replied the other, half in jest half in anger. “Leave my faiths alone. Lead your own barren life as you choose, but do not cut down flowers in the garden of others.”

“Life is truly a garden for you,” said the elder man, with a touch of envy in the tone of his voice.

It was dusk in S. Fosca for the day was far advanced, and the sun was setting without beyond the world of waters.

Two peasant women were saying their aves before low burning lamps. The scent of the grass and the smell of the sea came in through the open door. A cat walked noiselessly across the altar. As the church was now so it had been a thousand years earlier.

“Does this place say nothing to you?” asked the younger man.

“Nothing,” replied the other. “What should it say?”