the figure, even in its first state, and there was a strange
pathos in the bent head, the only part as yet in high relief. But Marzio
looked at it angrily. He turned it to the light, closed his eyes a
moment, looked at it again, and then, with an incoherent oath, his long,
discoloured hand descended on the model, and, with a heavy pressure and
one strong push, flattened out what he had done, and smeared it into a
shapeless mass upon the dark stone.

"I shall never do it," he said in a low voice. "They have destroyed my
idea."

For some minutes he rested his head in his hand in deep thought. At
last he rose and went to a corner of the workshop in which stood a
heavily ironed box. Marzio fumbled in his pocket till he found a key,
bright from always being carried about with him, and contrasting oddly
with the rusty lock into which he thrust it. It turned with difficulty
in his nervous fingers, and he raised the heavy lid. The coffer was full
of packages wrapped in brown paper. He removed one after another till he
came to a wooden case which filled the whole length and breadth of the
safe. He lifted it out carefully and laid it on the end of the bench.
The cover was fastened down by screws, and he undid them one by one
until it moved and came off in his hands. The contents were wrapped
carefully in a fine towel, which had once been white, but which had long
grown yellow with age. Marzio unfolded the covering with a delicate
touch as though he feared to hurt what was within. He took out a large
silver crucifix, raising it carefully, and taking care not to touch the
figure. He stood it upon the bench before him, and sat down to examine
it.

It was a work of rare beauty, which he had made more than ten years
before. With the strange reticent instinct which artists sometimes feel
about their finest works, he had finished it in secret, working at night
alone, and when it was done he had put it away. It was his greatest
feat, he had said to himself, and, as from time to time he took it out
and looked at it, he gradually grew less and less inclined to show it to
any one, resolving to leave it in its case, until it should be found
after his death. It had seemed priceless to him, and he would not sell
it. With a fantastic eccentricity of reasoning he regarded it as a
sacred thing, to part with which would be a desecration. So he kept it.
Then, taking it out again, it had seemed less good to him, as his mind
became occupied with