He had not tried him beyond his strength.
Michael was suffused with momentary shame at the joy that the death of his friend had brought him.
Nevertheless, like a mountain spring that will not be denied, joy ever rose and rose afresh within him.
Fay and he could marry now.

The thought of her, the hungered craving for her was no longer a sin.
It was Sunday evening.

The myriad bells of Venice were borne in a floating gossamer tangle of sound across the water.
Joy, overwhelming, suffocating joy inundated him.
He stumbled to his feet, and clung convulsively to the bars of his narrow window.
How often he had heard the bells, but never with this voice! He looked out across the wide water with its floating islands, each with its little campanile.

His eyes followed the sails of the fishing boats from Chioggia, floating like scarlet and orange butterflies in the pearl haze of the lagoon.
How often he had watched them in pain.

How often he had turned his eyes from them lest that mad rage for freedom which entered at times into the man in the next cell, when the boats passed, should enter also into him, and break him upon its wheel.
He looked at the boats now with tears in his eyes.