lieve," he said, as together they laid away the parchment,
"that in our modern mosaics we should keep to the massive lines of these
earlier models--greater dignity and simplicity in outline and coloring.
It is a mistake to attempt to confound this art with painting."

"It is good, then, for our art, Messer Cavaliere, that at San Donato,
our mother church, we workmen of Murano have our Lady in that old
Byzantine type; there is none earlier--nor in all Venice more perfect of
its time--and the setting is of marvelous richness and delicacy."

"It is most interesting," said the Veronese. "Sometimes a question has
come to me, if an artist cannot do the _all_, is he most the artist who
stops below his limitation or beyond it? A question of the earlier hint,
or the later realization."

"Between the mosaic and the painting, perhaps?" Girolamo questioned,
greatly interested.

"Nay, not between the arts, but of that which is possible to each. It is
not a Venetian question. Here all is warmth, color, beauty, joy; here
art is the expression of redundancy--it hath lost its symbolism."

"I know only Venice--the Greek and the Venetian types. But I have heard
that the Michelangelo was in himself a type?"

"He was a prophet," the Veronese answered reverently, "like the great
Florentine--a seer of visions; but at Rome only one understands why he
was born. He was a maker, creating mighty meanings under formlessness.
His great shapes seem each a mystery, wrestling with a message."

"I had thought there was none who equaled him in form--that he was even
as a sculptor in his painting."

"And it was even so. When I spake of 'formlessness' it was not the less,
but the more; as if, _before the visions had taken mortal shape, he,
being greater than men, saw them as spirits_."

"Never before have I talked with one who knew this master," said
Girolamo, "and it is a feast."

"Nay, I knew him not, for it was not easy to get speech with him, nor a
favor a young man might crave. But once I saw him at his work in San
Pietro, where he wrought most furiously and would take no payment--'for
the good of his soul,' he said, that he might end his life with a pious
work. The night was coming on, and already his candle was fastened to
his hat, that he might lose no time. They had brought him a little bread
and wine for his evening meal, for often he went not home when the mood
of work possessed him; and beside him was a writing of the man
Savonarola-