no parks in Venice, to my knowledge, but surely, sir, you would not enter a palazzo there uninvited without some reasonable pretext."
"It would be sufficient that in such a house as this I thought I might find some employment for a painter."
"You are a painter?" says I.
"A poor one, as you see," replies Dario, with a significant glance at his clothes.
Don Sanchez turned to me, hunching his shoulders.
"'Tis clear," says he, "that Signor Dario has been grossly abused by our lady's over-zealous steward. You have but to tell us, sir, what reparation we can make you."
"I'll not refuse it," answers Dario, eagerly. "You shall grant me permission to prove the honesty of my story—and something more than that. Somewhere here," adds he, glancing around him, "I'd leave a tribute to the grace of that dear lady who brought me back to life."
Don Sanchez assents with a bow to this proposal, but with a rueful glance at the rich panels of the wall, as fearing this painter might be as poor in talent as in his clothes—the latter reflecting discredit on the former—and would disfigure the handsome walls with some rude daub.
"Ah!" cries Dario, casting his eye upon the ceiling, which was plastered in the Italian mode and embellished with a poor design of cherubs and clouds, "this ceiling is ill done. I could paint a fresco that would less disgrace the room."
"You will need materials," says the Don, laying his purse upon the table. "When you return with them, you may rely upon having our lady's consent to your wishes."
