effectually preventing further failure, on his part at least.
Carmagnola was not a man of words. Yet he might have launched with his dying breath some ringing defiance to catch the echoes, and leave in Venetian ears a recollection, a watchword of rebellion to come. The remorseless Council thought of this, with the vigilance and subtle genius which inspired all the proceedings of their secret conclave; and when the May morning dawned which was to be his last, a crowning indignity was added to his doom. He was led out con uno sbadocchio in bocca, gagged, "in order that he might not speak," to the Piazzetta, now so cheerful and so gay, which then had the most dreadful associations of any in Venice. "Between the columns," the blue lagoon, with all its wavelets flinging upward their countless gleams of reflection in the early sun; the rich-hued sails standing out against the blue; the great barges coming serenely in, as now, with all their many-coloured stores from the Lido farms and fields, – the gondolas crowding to the edge of the fatal pavement, the populace rushing from behind. No doubt the windows of the ducal palace, or so much of the galleries as were then in existence, were crowded with spectators too. Silent, carrying his head high, like him of whom Dante writes who held great Hell itself in despite – sdegnoso even of that gag between his lips – the great soldier, the general whose praises had rung through Venice, and whose haughty looks had been so familiar in the streets, was led forth to his death. By that strong argument of the axe, unanswerable, incontestable, the Signoria managed to liberarsi of many an inconvenient servant and officer, either unsuccessful or too fortunate. Carmagnola had both of these faults. He was too great, and for once he had failed. The people called Sventura! Sventura! "Misfortune! Misfortune!" in their dark masses, as they struggled to see the wonderful sight. Their sympathies could scarcely be against the victim on that day of retribution and perhaps had his voice been free to speak to them, might have thought of other things to shout, which the Signoria had been less content to hear.
Thus ended the great Carmagnola, the most famous of all Italian soldiers of fortune. Over one of the doors of the noble church of the Frari there has hung for generations a coffin covered with a pall, in which it was long supposed that his bones had been placed, suspended between heaven and earth per infamia, as a romantic Custode says. This, however, is one of the fables of tradition. He was buried in San Francesco delle Vigne (not the present church), whence at a later period his remains were transferred to Milan. His wife and daughter, or daughters, were banished to Treviso with a modest pension, yet a penalty of death registered against them should they break bonds – so determined, it is evident, were the Signoria to leave no means by which the general could be avenged. And what became of these poor women is unknown. Such unconsidered trifles drop through the loopholes of history, which has nothing to do with hearts that are broken or hopes that cannot be renewed.
