It was on the third morning of his journey that Casanova, having reached Mestre, sighted once more the bell tower after over twenty years of longing--a pillar of grey stone looming distantly in the twilight.

It was but two leagues now to the beloved city in which he had been young.
He paid the driver without remembering whether this was the fifth or the sixth with whom he had had to settle since quitting Mantua, and, followed by a lad carrying his baggage, walked through the mean streets to the harbor from which to-day, just as five-and-twenty years earlier, the boat was to leave for Venice at six in the morning.
The vessel seemed to have been waiting for him; hardly had he seated himself upon a narrow bench, among petty traders, manual workers, and women bringing their wares to market, when she cast off.

It was a cloudy morning; mist was rolling across the lagoons; there was a smell of bilge-water, damp wood, fish, and fruit.

The Campanile grew ever higher; additional towers appeared; cupolas became visible.

The light of the morning sun was reflected from one roof, from two, from many.