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 sea in darkness, he entered a house, the lighted window of which indicated a tavern. He knew not one of the company whom he there found engaged in drinking and play. After some time, whom should he espy in a corner, seated quite alone at a small table, but the nobile. Nothing could be more seasonable—he should drink with him, and wine might perhaps make him communicative in regard to Apollonia. He accordingly addressed him, and proposed that they should have a bottle of Cyprus together. The stranger assented: they drank, talked, grew warmer and more familiar. Wine unsealed more and more the lips of the nobile, and this man, who before looked so dull, had soon drawn so lively a picture, not only of the Venetian women in general, but also of Apollonia herself, that were but half of what he said true, Camillo had reason to anticipate the most welcome reception. As he kept plying the bottle, the generous liquor opened his heart also, and when the Venetian inquired what Apollonia had said during dinner, he faithfully recapitulated the whole conversation, and dwelt particularly on Apollonia’s terror of secret accusations. The nobile observed with a smile, that on this point the fascinating countess had grossly exaggerated; adding, that there was no instance of a person having been apprehended immediately after a secret charge, several warnings