sleepless agony upon his bed. He instantly started
up, dressed, threw on his cloke, which the coolness of the night, windy
and dark, rendered necessary; and seizing a lighted torch, issued forth
towards the church.

The holy edifice stood in those days, when Arezzo was but a small place,
at some little distance from the dwellings of the citizens, and was
surrounded by a thick grove of sycamores mingled with pine trees.
The townsfolk had long retired to rest, and the streets were empty and
desolate. Not even the shadow of a monk flitted by him as he passed,
with his torch flaring in the wind, and casting an awful and almost
magical light upon the houses, painted, according to the fashion of
the time and country, in broad stripes of deep red and white. As he
approached the church, the wind, whistling through the pine branches,
which swung to and fro, and flapped against each other, like the wings
of the fabled Simoorg, or of some mighty demon struggling with the
blast, sounded like numerous voices issuing from the black roof of
clouds above him, and shrieking as he passed. At length he entered the
church, which in those times stood open day and night to the piety of
the people, and drew near the altar. Upon the walls on both sides were
suspended rude images of the Saviour carved in wood, and blackened by
time, and numerous antique scripture pieces by Giotto, Cimabue, and
other fathers of the art, which seemed to start into momentary existence
as Spinello's torch cast its red light upon them. At every step, his
heart beat violently against his side, and appeared as if it would mount
into his throat and choke him. But his courage did not fail, and he
ascended the Mosaic steps of the chancel, and, with his torch in one
hand, climbed up upon the altar and lifted his eyes towards the picture.
As he stood on tip-toe on the altar and passed his torch along the wall,
the mighty ranks of the fallen angels, in headlong flight before the
thunderbolts of heaven, seemed to emerge from the darkness, with the
awful form of Lucifer in the extreme rear reluctantly yielding even to
Omnipotence itself, while blasting lightnings played about his brow and
eyes, that flashed with the fires of inextinguishable fury. On first
casting his eyes over his picture, a feeling of self-complacency and
pride stole over the soul of the artist. But as he continued to gaze
with a kind of idolatry at the work of his own hands, his imagination
became excited