hole mind out, be assassin and victim.
Could the life beat again in the broken heart of Giorgione,
He might tell us, I think, something pleasant of friendship with
Titian."
Suddenly over the shoulder of Titian peered an ironical visage,
Smiling, malignly intent--the leer of the scurrilous poet:
"You know--all the world knows--who dug the grave of Giorgione.[7]
Titian and he were no friends--our Lady of Sorrows forgive 'em!
But for all hurt that Titian did him he might have been living,
Greater than any living, and lord of renown and such glory
As would have left you both dull as yon withered moon in the
sunshine."
Loud laughed the listening group at the insolent gibe of the poet,
Stirring the gall to its depths in the bitter soul of their master,
Who with his tremulous fingers tapped the hilt of his poniard,
Answering naught as yet. Anon the glance of the ribald,
Carelessly ranging from Pordenone's face to the picture,
Dwelt with an absent light on its marvellous beauty, and kindled
Into a slow recognition, with "Ha! Violante!" Then, erring
Wilfully as to the subject, he cackled his filthy derision:
"What have we here! More Magdalens yet of the painter's acquaintance?
Ah--!"
The words had scarce left his lips, when the painter
Rushed upon him, and clutching his throat, thrust him backward and
held him
Over the scaffolding's edge in air, and straightway had flung him
Crashing down on the pave of the cloister below, but for Titian,
Who around painter and poet alike wound his strong arms and stayed
them
Solely, until the bewildered pupils could come to the rescue.
Then, as the foes relaxed that embrace of frenzy and murder--
White, one with rage and the other with terror, and either with
hatred--
Grimly the great master smiled: "You were much nearer paradise,
Piero,
Than you have been for some time. Be ruled now by me and get
homeward
Fast as you may, and be thankful." And then, as the poet,
Looking neither to right nor to left, amid the smiles of the pupils
Tottered along the platform, and trembling descended the ladder
Down to the cloister pave, and, still without upward or backward
Glance, disappeared beneath the outer door of the Convent,
Titian turned again to the painter: "Farewell, Pordenone!
Learn more fairly to know me. I envy you not; and no rival
Now, or at any time, have