"So have
some of the others."
"Contarini?" asked Zorzi.
"No. I believe he has never seen any fighting."
While the two were talking the play had proceeded steadily, and almost
in silence. Contarini had lost heavily at first and had then won back
his losses and twice as much more.
"That does not happen often," he said, pushing away the dice and leaning
back.
Zorzi watched him. The yellow light of the wax candles fell softly upon
his silky beard and too perfect features, and made splendid shadows in
the scarlet silk of his coat, and flashed in the precious ruby of the
ring he wore on his white hand. He seemed a true incarnation of his
magnificent city, a century before the rest of all Italy in luxury, in
extravagance, in the art of wasteful trifling with great things which is
a rich man's way of loving art itself; and there were many others of the
company who were of the same stamp as he, but whose faces had no
interest for Zorzi compared with Contarini's. Beside him they were but
ordinary men in the presence of a young god.
No woman could resist such a man as that, thought the poor waif. It
would be enough that Marietta's eyes should rest on him one moment, next
Sunday, when he should be standing by the great pillar in the church,
and her fate would be sealed then and there, irrevocably.
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