rd and Edricson gazed
around them in amazement, for never had they seen such magnificent works
of art.

"You like them then," the lame artist cried, in answer to the look of
pleasure and of surprise in their faces. "There are then some of you who
have a taste for such trifling."

"I could not have believed it," exclaimed Alleyne. "What color! What
outlines! See to this martyrdom of the holy Stephen, Ford. Could you not
yourself pick up one of these stones which lie to the hand of the wicked
murtherers?"

"And see this stag, Alleyne, with the cross betwixt its horns. By my
faith! I have never seen a better one at the Forest of Bere."

"And the green of this grass--how bright and clear! Why all the painting
that I have seen is but child's play beside this. This worthy gentleman
must be one of those great painters of whom I have oft heard brother
Bartholomew speak in the old days at Beaulieu."

The dark mobile face of the artist shone with pleasure at the unaffected
delight of the two young Englishmen. His daughter had thrown off her
mantle and disclosed a face of the finest and most delicate Italian
beauty, which soon drew Ford's eyes from the pictures in front of him.
Alleyne, however, continued with little cries of admiration and of
wonderment to turn from the walls to the table and yet again to the
walls.

"What think you of this, young sir?" asked the painter, tearing off the
cloth which concealed the flat object which he had borne beneath his
arm. It was a leaf-shaped sheet of glass bearing upon it a face with a
halo round it, so delicately outlined, and of so perfect a tint, that it
might have been indeed a human face which gazed with sad and thoughtful
eyes upon the young squire. He clapped his hands, with that thrill of
joy which true art will ever give to a true artist.

"It is great!" he cried. "It is wonderful! But I marvel, sir, that you
should have risked a work of such beauty and value by bearing it at
night through so unruly a crowd."

"I have indeed been rash," said the artist. "Some wine, Tita, from the
Florence flask! Had it not been for you, I tremble to think of what
might have come of it. See to the skin tint: it is not to be replaced,
for paint as you will, it is not once in a hundred times that it is not
either burned too brown in the furnace or else the color will not hold,
and you get but a sickly white. There you can see the very veins and the
throb of thee blood. Yes, diavolo! if it ha