IT WAS at Venice. The lofty windows of the ancient Ducal Palace of the Speranzi opened upon the Grand Canal. The orb of night was mirrored in the waters by a furrow of silver spangles, and the immensity of the sky stretched over the towers and cupolas.
When the musicians borne by the gondolas had turned the corner of the canal to glide towards the Bridge of Sighs, their last choruses vanished in the night, and Venice seemed to go to sleep in that profound silence known to no hive of humanity but the Queen of the Adriatic. This Venetian silence was untroubled save by the cadenced beats of the old clock, and perhaps I should not have appreciated the whole depth of the universal muteness but for the regular oscillation of that apparatus designed for measuring time. The continuous “tick-tock” marked out the silence, and, curiously enough, seemed to intensify it.
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