four hundred horses in his stables, and by way of adding absurdity to extravagance he dyed their coats yellow, according to the ridiculous custom of the times. Yet he was forbidden by law to blazon his coat-of-arms on the ducal palace, or, in fact, anywhere else, and he was not allowed to have himself addressed as ‘My Lord.’ The law required him to wear a mantle of royal ermine, and to provide his servants with two new liveries each year; yet he could be treated like a boy, and told to be silent and sit down in Council, as actually happened to him a few years after his election.

The story is worth telling. I have spoken of the ‘Avogadori del Commun,’ who were officers of considerable importance and power, and not at first noble. They stood, in a manner, between private individuals and the State in matters of law, civil and criminal; partly in the position of a modern attorney-general, partly as representing the exchequer, but they had a right of interference in many other matters. Two of them were bound to be present at every Council, including that of the Ten, arrayed in long red robes, and they had power to suspend all judgments during three days in cases which, if not positively criminal, concerned the execution of laws and edicts. Though at first not nobles, and perhaps for that very reason, it had always been their business to act as a Heralds’ Office for the purpose of examining into all titles of nobility and claims for seats in the Grand Council.

Now it happened on the second of June in 1410 that a certain noble called Donato Michiel proposed the repeal of a law which had been approved six years earlier by the Great Council; the Avogadori opposed the motion, and accused the patrician of encroaching on their rights. But the Doge Steno, agreeing with the noble, lost his temper, and spoke sharply to the Avogadori. Now the ducal oath forbade the Doge to speak in defence of any one unless he could obtain permission to do so from four out of six of his counsellors. Three of the latter now tried to call him to order, but he would not listen to them. ‘Messer Doge,’ they then said bluntly, ‘let your Serenity sit down and be silent, and leave the Avogadori quite free to do their duty!’

Two other counsellors now took the Doge’s side, and he went on talking; whereupon the Avogadori imposed on him a fine and threatened to bring an action against him. Both parties grew more and more obstinate, and the quarrel lasted several days, until some intelligent persons discovered that the Doge had not broken his ducal oath, because the Avogadori had not yet formally made accusation against Donato Michiel, so that what the Doge had said had not been said in defence of any one, there being no legally accused person, but as a general statement of opinion; and in this way the affair was patched up without scandal.

Under the rule of Tomaso Mocenigo, Steno’s successor, the Republic seems to have recovered something of its pristine vigour, and the germs of internal corruption were retarded in their growth for a time. Mocenigo was as austere, as prudent, and as active as

Steno had been extravagant, hot-tempered, and careless. Venice now finally obtained possession of Friuli and Dalmatia, which made her mistress of the Adriatic as far as Corfu.

Mocenigo was a man of iron will and inflexible principle. Nothing gives a clearer idea of his character than his own recapitulation of his nine years’ reign, when he lay dying of old age.

On his deathbed he assembled about him the principal officers of the Republic, and drew a clear picture of the condition of the country at the end of his administration, giving his hearers at the same time valuable advice as to the election of his successor, which they unfortunately did not follow. I quote the speech in full:—

Mocenigo died on the fourth of April 1423.

In spite of his admonitions and of a considerable opposition, the electors chose Francesco Foscari to succeed him, and henceforth war with Milan became a certainty. It was on the occasion of his election that the last remnant of the people’s right of interference was done away with. Hitherto it had been customary to announce each election to the people, adding the words ‘if such be your pleasure.’ This time the High Chancellor, who, it will be remembered, was never a noble, inquired, with a smile, what would happen if the people answered that it was not their pleasure. The result was that the formula was never used again.

But the people were easily amused and let the nobles do as they pleased, even when, at a later date, the designation ‘Venetian Commonwealth’ was abandoned, and the word ‘Signoria’ was officially substituted in its place. This, literally translated, means ‘lordship,’ but it has long been a convenient custom to make an English word of it, as ‘Signory.’

Some idea of the character of Francesco Foscari is given by the following anecdote. The Giustiniani family had built three palaces on the Grand Canal, one of which had been sold as a residence to the young Duke of Mantua, whom his brother, when dying, had commended to the protection of the Republic. Foscari could not endure the thought that the Giustiniani should still have two palaces finer than his only one, and when the government sold the third at auction in 1428, he bought it and raised it by building another story in order that it might outdo the others. It was then said to have three hundred and sixty-five windows, and it was valued at twenty thousand ducats, say, at fifteen thousand pounds sterling, which was a vast sum for those days.

Foscari’s name recalls dramatic memories, and, to tell the truth, it has frequently been taken in vain by poets and playwrights, and even by some chroniclers and historians. His son Jacopo was not the martyr he has been represented to be, nor was he himself the ‘Roman father’ of the play. I shall tell the true story—a terrible one enough, even in its accurate form—after briefly reviewing his reign.

The dying Mocenigo had not been altogether wrong in his predictions about Foscari, for before long the Republic was at war with Milan, as the ally of Florence, and was squandering money and men at a disastrous rate. Foscari undoubtedly belonged to the war party, yet in the true interests of his country he really controlled his own fiery nature for some time, and endeavoured to maintain a neutral position with regard to the quarrels of the Visconti with the Florentines, during which it was the constant aim of the latter to break up the alliance which was still in force between Milan and Venice.

Giovanni Galeazze was dead. His eldest son, Giovanni-Maria, had succeeded him, a maniac who is said to have fed his hounds on human flesh; and he had been dethroned by Facino Cane, and then massacred by the Milanese, as he richly deserved. His brother, Filippo-Maria, when Facino Cane died childless, promptly married the latter’s widow, the unhappy Beatrice da Tenda, in order to inherit something of Facino’s popularity and all of his vast estates. This being accomplished, and not caring for her company, as she was twice his age, he brought a false accusation against her, tortured her and sent her to the scaffold, while she protested her innocence. But this was only an incidental crime, and would doubtless have been forgotten with a hundred others but for the noble bearing of the unfortunate woman throughout the tragedy that ended her life. The historically important fact is that Filippo-Maria determined to recover every inch of the wide territory which had been ruled by his father, and that if he had accomplished his end, Venice would have been required to restore what she had taken from the Milanese.

Florence was at that time in one of her only too frequent phases of ill-luck, yet her hatred for the Visconti was such that she could not resist the temptation to fight Milan under all circumstances. She needed help, of course; above all, she needed money, and Venice was the richest nation in Europe. As has been seen, too, from Mocenigo’s dying speech, the two States were in close commercial relations. It was natural, therefore, that Florence should seek assistance of Venice; it was equally natural, according to the old traditions of Venice, that aid should be refused, unless it could be given profitably.

Foscari was for war, but was not able to influence the Senate in favour of the Florentines, to whom he had always been friendly. It was a stranger and a fugitive, a soldier of fortune of the highest physical

courage, of the lowest origin, and of no principles at all, who turned the scale—no less a personage than the famous condottiero Carmagnola.

This remarkable man’s real name was Francesco Bossone, an appellation derived from the village in which he had been born of peasant parents. He had enlisted at an early age, and had attracted the attention and favour of Filippo-Maria Visconti, immediately after Facino Cane’s death, by almost catching Ettore Visconti, whom Filippo wished to murder. After this, Carmagnola’s advance to fortune was rapid and unchecked. In ten years we find him with the title of Count of Castelnuovo, as Filippo’s governor over Genoa, married to a widowed Antonia Visconti, who passed for a daughter of Giovanni Galeazzo; and so he prospered, till he had acquired such wealth that he deemed it safe to invest a part of it in foreign securities. As an especial favour, by a decree of the Great Council of Venice, he was allowed to buy bonds of the Venetian debt with his money, a privilege rarely granted to any foreigner. Before long he had cause to congratulate himself upon this piece of fortune, and upon his own caution, which had led directly to it.

Various explanations have been given of his disgrace with Filippo Visconti; it has been said that he lost the prince’s favour by the calumnies of people who envied him. Romanin says Filippo grew suspicious of him, because he was too successful and too popular with the troops, and that the envy of courtiers did the rest; that on being recalled from the governorship of Genoa he attempted in vain to obtain an audience of the Duke, and did all he could

to justify himself; but that, as he failed altogether, he withdrew to Piedmont, and did his best to incite Amadeus of Savoy against Filippo; that the latter then confiscated all his possessions, and arrested his wife and daughters, whom he held as hostages; and that, finally, Carmagnola went to Venice, and offered his services and those of eighty men-at-arms whom he had with him, the Republic being then on the eve of yielding to the entreaties of Florence and declaring war on Visconti.

The plain truth of all this seems to be that Carmagnola was an unprincipled scoundrel, who meant to be on the winning side whatever happened, and who, being very well informed, foresaw that a league was about to be made, with Venice at its head, which would be in a position to defy his old master. The latter, of course, tried to poison him by secret agents, who failed, were caught, and were duly tortured and hanged by the Venetian government, which took the diplomatic precaution of not mentioning the Duke of Milan in the case. There is a sameness about the crimes of the Visconti which makes them almost tiresome; Carmagnola was bolder and quite as profound, but the habit of superiority in actual fighting made him underestimate, in the end, the cool prudence of Venice and the many-sided duplicity of the Duke.

Venice accepted the adventurer’s offer, and soon afterwards placed him in command of her land army; and before long Mocenigo’s prediction was fulfilled, and the Republic was reduced to something like slavery under the iron hand of the captain she had hired. He, on his part, played a double game from the first, and made up his mind that if he must beat his old master, he would hurt him as little as he could in so doing, and would try to renew secret and friendly relations with him while acting as the Republic’s general.

It was about this time that the Doge Foscari made a speech in favour of the Florentine alliance, which was first published by Romanin. It bears the stamp of a genuine report, and much of it is in the Venetian dialect. Foscari argued that unless Venice would help Florence, the latter would shortly be annihilated by Visconti, who would then proceed at once to the destruction of Venice herself. He referred incidentally to a speech just made by Carmagnola, and assured the Republic that under such a general’s leadership there was nothing to fear, whereas there was great hope of extending the boundaries of the Republic. He wound up by saying that Visconti aspired to rule all Italy, despised reason, both human and divine, and was always taking other men’s property by fraud and deception; and Foscari called upon the Venetians to help in crushing a common enemy, for the perpetual peace of all Italy.

The speech is hot and warlike. Nevertheless Romanin, three pages farther on, declares that it is a great injustice to accuse Foscari of having promoted war, and complains that historians have made the Doge the scapegoat to bear the blame of all the wars in which Venice then became involved. But Romanin was not only an enthusiastic Venetian; he was also, to some extent, the apologist of the elder Foscari.

The ratification of the league was announced at the end of January 1426, and Carmagnola’s definite commission dates from the nineteenth of February. He proceeded to besiege the fortresses of Brescia, allowed the Florentine general to plan the really astonishing entrenchments, looked on while the machinery of attack was set in motion, and departed to follow a long cure of baths at Abano, very much to the disgust of the Republic. He came back in leisurely fashion to the scene of action a few days before the two castles capitulated, in time to take credit for the whole affair, yet almost without having struck a blow at Visconti.

Meanwhile Francesco Bembo had transported another force up the Po in a flotilla of small vessels, and farther still up the river Adda, and had actually made a demonstration before Pavia, in the heart of Visconti’s dominions. The Duke having failed to poison Carmagnola, tried to burn down the Venetian arsenal by treachery, which was discovered, and his wretched agent was tortured to death in due form.

Pope Martin V., who was a Colonna, and therefore a Ghibelline—the only Ghibelline pope who ever reigned—was the one sovereign in Italy who still favoured Visconti, and he now intervened to make peace. A treaty was patched up by which the Duke lost a good deal of territory, and was bound to set at liberty the wife and daughters of Carmagnola. This was the peace of 1426, concluded on the thirtieth of December. Little more than a month later, on the fifth of February 1427, the Republic sent for Carmagnola again, for the Duke had simply refused to hand over the fortresses he was to yield by the treaty, and on the twenty-fourth of March Carmagnola and his wife made a sort of triumphal entry into the city.

In the campaign which followed, though for the most part pursuing his policy of inactivity, in spite of the protests of the Senate and the Doge, Carmagnola condescended to win a battle for Venice at Macalò, which it must be admitted, for his reputation, was a brilliant victory; and he soon asked leave to go and take more baths, as if the whole affair were perfectly indifferent to him. To this the Senate objected, but he was given all manner of rich compensation for his services, and came to Venice on leave. He was received with an ovation.

He had, indeed, been opposed to some of the greatest condottieri of the time, such as Francesco Sforza and Piccinino, and the Venetians seem to have valued him, because they were convinced that he could beat any opponent if he pleased, and only required gifts and flattery to rouse him to action. These were lavished on him, and a second peace with Visconti was concluded in April 1428, about fourteen months after the first. It was ratified and announced in May, and again Carmagnola entered Venice in triumph. He was now formally invested with the great feudal estate of Chiari.

As was to be expected, Visconti again failed to fulfil the conditions of the treaty, and within three years hostilities broke out again. To the amazement and mortification of the Venetian government, however, Carmagnola now resigned his commission, almost at the moment when he was to have taken command, and there is reason to believe that he was even then secretly negotiating with Visconti. But the Republic could not afford to lose such a man at such a moment; he was offered conditions which must have surpassed even his own tolerably large expectations. Not only was he to possess for himself and all his descendants the great estate of Chiari, with its rental, but another large feudal holding in the territory of Brescia was promised him on the same conditions; if all Lombardy were taken, he was promised the complete restitution of all the domains which Visconti had formerly bestowed upon him; all plunder and all prisoners of war were to be his, the Republic contracting to pay him a certain sum for each prisoner of importance whom he handed over to the government; as if this were not enough, he was to be crowned Duke of Milan if he could drive out Visconti.

While these astonishing offers were being made to him by Venice, he received more than one letter from the Duke, requesting him to act as an intermediary to make peace. This fact was, of course, soon known to the Venetian government, and we can hardly be surprised that the Venetians should not have liked the part which the Duke was thrusting upon a man who had betrayed him, and whom he should have considered as his worst enemy.

Mr. Horatio Brown has conjectured with great acumen that Visconti, who thoroughly understood the character of Carmagnola, as well as that of the Venetian government, chose the surest means of ruining the condottiero of whom he wished to be rid. Carmagnola, equally flattered by the Duke’s secret letters and by the overwhelming offers of the Republic, began to assume airs of superiority which could not but excite the suspicion of a government whereof suspicion itself was the very foundation and mainspring.

A series of discussions now began between the Senate and Visconti, in which Carmagnola was continually concerned, but it was soon the gossip of the city that the letters which he really sent to the Duke were by no means identical with the drafts of those which he showed the Senate for approbation. It is at least certain that, after war was declared, as was inevitable, Carmagnola showed neither decision nor energy when obliged to face Visconti’s army, and allowed himself to be beaten by Francesco Sforza, who was afterwards himself Duke of Milan. He showed all his old energy in Friuli in driving out the Hungarians, whom Visconti had induced to make a descent upon that territory, but he had no sooner come back to Brescia, for which Visconti himself was fighting, than his hesitation returned.

Smedley, in connection with what now happened, quotes the following remarkable passage from the twelfth chapter of Macchiavelli’s Principe: ‘Perceiving that Carmagnola had become cold in their service, they yet neither wished nor dared to dismiss him, from a fear of losing that which he had acquired for them; for their own security, therefore, they were compelled to put him to death.’

The condottiero now received a message from the Signory, requesting him ‘to give himself the trouble’ of coming to Venice to discuss a new plan of campaign. Completely taken off his guard, he at once left his camp and repaired to the capital, where he was met by eight nobles, who accompanied him to the ducal palace, telling him that the Doge expected him to dinner.

His own small escort was dismissed at the door, and he was ushered into a hall where he waited a few moments. Then came Leonardo Mocenigo and said that the Doge was indisposed, and begged that he would come again on the following day. Carmagnola left the room, followed by the eight nobles. In the courtyard he was about to take the direction which would have led him to the canal where he had left his boat, when the nobles suddenly came up with him and pointed towards the small porch under which was the outer entrance to the prisons.

‘This way, Sir Count,’ they said. ‘But that is not my way,’ he answered. ‘You are mistaken,’ they said, ‘this is the best way.’ At the same moment, certain gaolers appeared and pushed him through the door of the Pozzi. ‘I am lost!’ he cried, as he went in.

This was on the seventh of April. The manner of

the general’s arrest may be excused for its lack of dignity by the necessities of the situation. The man was most undoubtedly a traitor and a villain, but it would have been impossible to seize him in the midst of his own men-at-arms, and the most prudent manner of getting possession of his person was to draw him into an ambush. The wise and merciful fathers of the Republic would assuredly not have hesitated at much worse things; only a few days earlier they had offered twenty-five thousand ducats to a man called Muazzo, employed in Visconti’s household, to poison the Duke. The Republic had already fully adopted the progressive methods of its day.

Carmagnola’s trial occupied some time, and was conducted on the whole in a regular and legal manner. It began on the ninth of April, and on the eleventh the once all-powerful captain, to whom those who were now his judges had offered the dukedom of Milan, was put to the torture like any other criminal. On the fifth of May the Council of Ten gave its verdict as follows:—

‘That this Count Francesco Carmagnola, a public traitor to our dominion, be led to-day, after nones, at the usual hour, with a gag in his mouth and with his hands tied behind his back, according to custom, between the two columns of the Square of Saint Mark’s, to the usual place of execution, and that his head be there struck off his shoulders, so that he die.’

The sentence goes on to direct that the Count’s widow should enjoy the interest of ten thousand ducats of the bonded debt, on condition that she should live in Treviso. Provision was also made for his unmarried daughters. As for the one who was affianced to

Sigismondo Malatesta, since there was no divorce law by which he could sever an alliance which was odious, he adopted the simple expedient of murdering her as soon as he had married her and secured her dowry.

Carmagnola’s body was dressed in crimson velvet, and on his severed head was placed the cap which still bears his name. The corpse was borne to the church of San Francesco della Vigna with twenty-four torches, but as it was about to be buried there, the capuchin monk who had received his last confession appeared in haste and said that the dead man had wished to be buried in the church of the Frari, and he was accordingly laid there, in the cloister. In Venice it was the custom that the clothes of executed persons should be given to the gaoler, not to the headsman; but in this case the Council of Ten decreed that the dress worn by Carmagnola should be handed over with his body to the monks of the church where he was buried, the gaoler receiving ten ducats as compensation.

His remains are now interred in Milan beside those of his wife Antonia in the greater church of Saint Francis. The historian Morosini, quoted by Romanin in a note, judged from his statue that he had the hard face, the cruel eye, and, generally, the unpleasant aspect which denote a man of dangerous character and stubborn purpose; and adds that he was a person of a keen wit, a tough constitution, and great courage, but capricious and of doubtful honesty.

Carmagnola’s wife was deeply implicated in his treachery, as is not surprising considering that she was known as the niece of Giovanni Galeazzo Visconti, and was believed by many to be his daughter. She and her children were required to remain in Venice some time

before proceeding to Treviso, and were detained in the convent of the Vergini, the same religious house which had served as a prison for two ladies of the Quirini family more than a century earlier. It was there that the Countess received the news of her husband’s execution, which was announced to her by one of the heads of the Council of Ten and an Avogador; and these officials at the same time demanded of her a list of her jewellery, assuring her that the Signory would forgive her misdeeds if she would only show a proper spirit of contrition. I find no account of the poor woman’s behaviour on this occasion; but as the sentence was executed only a few hours after it was passed, the news of her husband’s death on the scaffold was in all likelihood conveyed to her without any previous notice of his condemnation, and it was accompanied by a cold request for an inventory of her jewels, and a lecture on patience and repentance. Even the imagination of a novelist fails to guess what she must have felt as she listened to the grim men who had just condemned her husband and seen him die, and now wished to be told how many earrings and gold chains and brooches she had in her possession.

She afterwards really retired to Treviso with her daughters, and the Republic continued to pay her the promised allowance, till she one day escaped to Milan, whereby the obligations of the Venetian government were ended.

Whatever Visconti’s plans may have been when he secretly renewed his relations with Carmagnola, whether he intended to compass his ruin or not, it is certain that he bitterly resented his execution, and used every means, including the most inhuman tortures, to discover the names of those who had accused and condemned the condottiero. If he had succeeded he would no doubt have tried to poison them all.

Not long after Carmagnola was imprisoned, Piccinino, one of Visconti’s generals, captured in a skirmish at Valtellina Giorgio Corner, a noble and very influential Venetian, who had acted as Provveditor to oversee Carmagnola’s doings in the field. He was taken to Monza, near Milan, and confined there in one of the prisons called ‘Forni,’ ‘ovens,’ compared with which the dreaded Pozzi seem to have been thought airy and luxurious quarters. He lived to write an account of what he suffered, and I shall give a literal translation of his words, not for the sake of inspiring horror, but because the document bears the unmistakable stamp of truth, and is one of very few of the kind which have come down to us.

Corner was first examined by Gaspare de Grossis, Doctor of Laws.

On the second of January Corner was told that he was to be tortured again, and he addressed his tormentors as follows:—

The unhappy man was kept in prison six years, and was supposed in Venice to be dead, but he succeeded in sending a message to his son. The Republic then sternly demanded of Visconti his release, and he returned to his home at last, deformed by torture, pale and emaciated, with a beard that descended to his belt. He lived just two months after that, prematurely broken by his horrible sufferings, and was followed to his grave by a vast concourse of the people. Romanin says that he was a nephew of the Doge Marco Corner, whose brave defence of his poverty and of his burgher wife, when he was a candidate, will be remembered. It is more likely that the Doge was the Provveditor’s great-uncle, as he died a very old man, more than seventy years before the death of the unfortunate Giorgio. It is possible, however, that Romanin may have meant that the latter was the Doge’s grandson, for in Italian there is but one word to signify ‘grandson’ or ‘nephew,’ though when the former meaning is intended it is usual to make it clear.

Foscari’s name is so closely associated in most persons’ memories with the tragedy of his worthless son, that we are apt to forget that his reign lasted a third of a century and covered one of the most important periods in Venetian history. It embraces most of the wars of the league, the rise and fall of Carmagnola, the end of the house of Visconti, and the foundation and elevation of the Sforza family; and, most important of all, the taking of Constantinople by the Turks.

Much sentimental nonsense has been written about the two Foscari, and even such a historian as Daru has had the courage to tell us that the Doge presided in the court which condemned his son, and that Jacopo received his sentence from the mouth of his own father. Not content with stating these impossibilities, Daru has actually described the scene, with many details, though it could not, under any circumstances, have taken place, since a special edict of the Council of Ten expressly forbade the Doge, or any member of his family, to be present at the trial.

Jacopo’s troubles began soon after his marriage in 1441 with Lucrezia, a daughter of Leonardo Contarini.

The wedding had been celebrated with great splendour, and the bride had been conducted home over a bridge especially built for the ceremony across the Grand Canal; there had been boat-races, a tournament in which the great Francesco Sforza himself took part, and there had been illuminations of the city and endless other festivities. The bridegroom is said to have been a very cultivated young man of great personal charm, a Greek scholar, a lover of poetry, and a collector of rare manuscripts; but of weak character, careless and extravagant. It really looks as if his fate had been the final consequence of some momentary lack of means wherewith to satisfy his luxurious tastes. Three years after his marriage he was accused before the Council of Ten of having received gifts from several important citizens in consideration of obtaining honorific or lucrative posts for them through his influence with his father. One of his servants and several other persons were examined under torture, and their evidence led to an order for his arrest. He had been informed of what was going on, however, and had already escaped.

The trial proceeded without him, and it was sufficiently proved that a box existed in the Doge’s house containing valuables which he had received. The law forbidding any member of the Doge’s family to receive any gifts whatsoever, under any circumstances, was most rigidly enforced in Venice, and Jacopo was justly sentenced to a temporary exile; he was known to be in Trieste, and a galley was ordered to proceed thither to convey him to Modon in the Peloponnesus, whence he was to journey at his own expense to Napoli di Romania, near Corinth, within one month; and while there he was to present himself to the governor every day, to sleep in the city every night, to keep no more than three servants, and to be treated in all respects as a private

citizen. If he refused to go on board the galley a price was set on his capture; he was to be brought to Venice and beheaded between the columns. Several minor personages were at the same time sentenced to short terms of exile, and to the loss of any public offices they might be holding at the time.

The offence was patent, the trial was legal, and the condemnation was just; but Jacopo cared for none of these things, and altogether declining the invitation of the Ten to go on board the galley sent for him, he continued to live in Trieste as if nothing had happened. The Ten, on their side, were by no means anxious to incur the odium of decapitating the Doge’s son, as they had declared that they would do if he refused obedience, and they now begged the Doge himself to use his paternal influence with Jacopo, in order that they might not be driven to extremities; but as this measure also remained without any effect, the Council confirmed its sentence and confiscated Jacopo’s property. At any moment he might have been arrested, brought to Venice, and beheaded; but instead of this, a committee was named to examine into the circumstances. It was ascertained that Jacopo was in bad health; it was voted that this fact should be accepted as a sufficient excuse for his disobedience; and, by way of smoothing matters over, it was decreed that he should be exiled only to Treviso and the Trevisan district, almost within sight of Venice. Jacopo thought fit to submit to this mild decree, which was not modified, although it was soon afterwards discovered that he had received two thousand and forty ducats, with a quantity of silver plate, from Francesco Sforza. A year later the Doge presented a petition to the Council of Ten begging that, in consideration of his own old age, and of the fact that Jacopo, his wife, his children, and all their servants, suffered from malarious fever in the climate of Mestre, Jacopo might be allowed to return to Venice. This petition was actually granted, doubtless owing to the signal services rendered to the Republic by the old Doge during a reign which had already lasted twenty years.

Jacopo returned, and during the next three years nothing is known of his mode of life. It must be admitted that, so far, the Ten had acted with unusual clemency. They can hardly be blamed, however, for having watched Jacopo afterwards.

On the evening of the fifth of November 1450 an atrocious murder was committed, and the fact that the victim, the noble Ermolao Donato, had been one of the heads of the Ten during Jacopo’s trial, and that he was killed just after he had left the ducal palace, cast suspicion upon the younger Foscari. It was not until two months later that a formal accusation was laid against him and he was arrested. There was certainly strong evidence to prove the crime. Foscari had long made no secret about his hatred of the murdered man; a servant of Jacopo’s had been seen hanging about the palace as if waiting for some one just before Donato had come out; and a good many minor pieces of testimony were adduced.

There is not the slightest truth in the story that Jacopo Loredan ever held the Foscari family responsible for the death of his father, who was probably poisoned by Visconti, nor that he entered the crime as a debt in his ledger, and wrote ‘paid’ opposite the entry when the elder Foscari was deposed. Yet it is true that a sort of feud had long existed between the two families, that Pietro Loredan had been the unsuccessful candidate when Foscari had been elected, and that Jacopo Loredan now took an active part in the proceedings against Jacopo Foscari.

The trial was not in any way a secret one. The evidence was only circumstantial, and even under torture Jacopo confessed nothing. In modern England or America he would not have been tortured, but he would in all probability have been hanged for the murder. The Ten must have felt the difficulty in which they were placed, and they met it by condemning him to exile in Crete, not allowing his wife and children to accompany him. Foscari was then taken from the ducal palace and placed on board a ship, which conveyed him to his destination. He remained in Crete unmolested during five years.