be angry, and would not forget the
humiliation he had suffered. There was nothing more to be done at
present, and Don Paolo prepared to take his departure, gathering his
cloak around him, and smoothing the felt of his three-cornered hat while
he held his green umbrella under his arm.

"Are you going already, Don Paolo?" asked Gianbattista, rising to open
the door.

"Yes, I must go. Good-bye, Marzio. Bear me no ill-will for pressing you
to be cautious. Good-bye, Tista." He pressed the young man's hand
warmly, as though to thank him for his courageous defence, and then left
the workshop. Marzio paid no attention to his departure. When the door
was closed, and as Gianbattista was returning to his bench, the artist
dropped his modelling tools and faced his apprentice.

"You may go too," he said in a low tone, as though he were choking. "I
mean you may go for good. I do not need you any longer."

He felt in his pocket for his purse, opened it, and took out some small
notes.

"I give you an hour to take your things from my house," he continued.
"There are your wages--you shall not tell the priest that I cheated
you."

Gianbattista stood still in the middle of the room while Marzio held out
the money to him. A hot flush rose to his young forehead, and he seemed
on the point of speaking, but the words did not pass his lips. With a
quick step he came forward, took the notes from Marzio's hand, and
crumpling them in his fingers, threw them in his face with all his
might. Then he turned on his heel, spat on the floor of the room, and
went out before Marzio could find words to resent the fresh insult.

The door fell back on the latch and Marzio was alone. He was very pale,
and for a moment his features worked angrily. Then a cruel smile passed
over his face. He stooped down, picked up the crumpled notes, counted
them, and replaced them in his purse. The economical instinct never
forsook him, and he did the thing mechanically. Glancing at the bench
his eyes fell on the pointed punch which Gianbattista had taken up in
his anger. He felt it carefully, handled it, looked at it, smiled again
and put it into his pocket.

"It is not a bad one," he muttered. "How many cherubs' eyes I have made
with that thing!"

He turned to the slate and examined the rough model he had made in wax,
flat still, and only indicated by vigorous touches, the red material
smeared on the black surface all around it by his fingers. There was
force in