The torches fluttered from the walls of a burial vault in ancient
Venice. Two shrouded figures leaned over the body of a dead warrior,
and, as they gazed upon the wax-like features, their eyes were filled
with tears.
"See," said the taller fellow. "He has indeed led the stalwart life.
Here are five and thirty wounds upon the body of our most renowned
compatriot. He was a true hero."
"You speak correctly, O Knight," answered the other. "Carlo Zeno was
the real warrior without fear and without reproach. He has fared
badly at the hands of the Republic. But then, is this not life? Those
most worthy seem never to receive their just compensation during their
living hours. It is only when they are dead that a tardy public gives
them some recognition of the great deeds which they have done, the
battles which they have fought, and the honor which they have brought
to their native land. Alas! poor Zeno! He the true patriot has had
but scant and petty praise."
So saying the two noble Venetians covered the prostrate form of the
dead warrior for they had lifted the brown robe which enshrouded
him and, with slow faltering steps, they left the gloomy chamber of
death.
Who was this Venetian soldier, who, covered with the marks of battle,
lay in his last sleep? Who this hero of war's alarms? This patriotic
leader of the rough-and-ready rovers of the sea?
It was Carlo Zeno, a man of the best blood of Venice, who,
commanding fighting men and fighting ships, had battled strenuously
and well for his native country.
Venice. Two shrouded figures leaned over the body of a dead warrior,
and, as they gazed upon the wax-like features, their eyes were filled
with tears.
"See," said the taller fellow. "He has indeed led the stalwart life.
Here are five and thirty wounds upon the body of our most renowned
compatriot. He was a true hero."
"You speak correctly, O Knight," answered the other. "Carlo Zeno was
the real warrior without fear and without reproach. He has fared
badly at the hands of the Republic. But then, is this not life? Those
most worthy seem never to receive their just compensation during their
living hours. It is only when they are dead that a tardy public gives
them some recognition of the great deeds which they have done, the
battles which they have fought, and the honor which they have brought
to their native land. Alas! poor Zeno! He the true patriot has had
but scant and petty praise."
So saying the two noble Venetians covered the prostrate form of the
dead warrior for they had lifted the brown robe which enshrouded
him and, with slow faltering steps, they left the gloomy chamber of
death.
Who was this Venetian soldier, who, covered with the marks of battle,
lay in his last sleep? Who this hero of war's alarms? This patriotic
leader of the rough-and-ready rovers of the sea?
It was Carlo Zeno, a man of the best blood of Venice, who,
commanding fighting men and fighting ships, had battled strenuously
and well for his native country.
