lways standing up for the weak
and the down-trodden, and never returning anybody's insult, however
shameful and false and wicked, because he wasn't thinking of himself at
all. So I got the best model I could in real life, and this is the
result."

With that she pulled off the muslin veil and revealed the sculptured
head of David Rossi, in a snow-white plaster cast. The features
expressed pure nobility, and every touch was a touch of sympathy and
love.

A moment of chilling silence was followed by an under-breath of gossip.
"Who is it?" "Christ, of course." "Oh, certainly, but it reminds me of
some one." "Who can it be?" "The Pope?" "Why, no; don't you see who it
is?" "Is it really?" "How shameful!" "How blasphemous!"

Roma stood looking on with a face lighted up by two flaming eyes. "I'm
afraid you don't think I've done justice to my model," she said. "That's
quite true. But perhaps my Judas will please you better," and she
stepped up to the bust that was covered by the wet cloth.

"I found this a difficult subject also, and it was not until yesterday
evening that I felt able to begin on it."

Then, with a hand that trembled visibly, she took from the wall the
portrait of her father, and offering it to the Minister, she said:

"Some one told me a story of duplicity and treachery--it was about this
poor old gentleman, Baron--and then I knew what sort of person it was
who betrayed his friend and master for thirty pieces of silver, and
listened to the hypocrisy, and flattery, and lying of the miserable
group of parasites who crowded round him because he was a traitor, and
because he kept the purse."

With that she threw off the damp cloth, and revealed the clay model of a
head. The face was unmistakable, but it expressed every
baseness--cunning, arrogance, cruelty, and sensuality.

The silence was freezing, and the company began to turn away, and to
mutter among themselves, in order to cover their confusion. "It's the
Baron!" "No?" "Yes." "Disgraceful!" "Disgusting!" "Shocking!" "A
scarecrow!"

Roma watched them for a moment, and then said: "You don't like my Judas?
Neither do I. You're right--it _is_ disgusting."

And taking up in both hands a piece of thin wire, she cut the clay
across, and the upper part of it fell face downward with a thud on to
the floor.

The Princess, who stood by the side of the Baron, offered him her
sympathy, and he answered in his icy smile:

"But these artists are all slightly i