from the master's sketches, the good
St. Francis receiving the stigmata, and meantime devising some way of
hoodwinking Memmi the cobbler, whose wife was comely and obliging.

Buffalmacco, who was not less expert, far from it, than his two
comrades, mounted the ladder and started painting the wings of the
seraphic crucifix that came down from heaven to mark the Blessed Saint
with the five wounds of love, taking the utmost pains to blend in the
celestial pinions all the tenderest hues of the rainbow. The task
occupied him all day, and when old Tafi came back from San Giovanni, he
could not refrain from bestowing a few words of commendation on his
pupil. This cost him no small effort, for age and riches had made him
both cross and critical.

"My lads," he said, addressing the apprentices, "those wings are painted
with a good deal of spirit. Buffalmacco might go far in the art of
painting, if he would only apply himself more vigorously. But there, his
mind is far too much set on self-indulgence; and great achievements can
only be accomplished by steady labour. Now Calendrino here would beat
you all, with his industry--if he were not a born fool."

In such fashion Andrea Tafi improved the occasion with a proper
severity. Then, having said his say, he went to the kitchen to take his
supper, which consisted of a bit of salt fish; after that he betook
himself to his chamber, lay down in his bed, and was soon snoring.
Meantime Buffalmacco made his usual round through every quarter of the
city where wine was to be had cheap and girls cheaper still. This done,
he got home again half an hour or so before the time Tafi generally
woke. He drew out the bag from under his bed, took the cockroaches one
by one, and by means of a short, sharp needle fastened a little wax
taper on the back of each. Lighting the tapers, he let the insects
loose, one after the other, in the room. The creatures are too stupid to
feel pain, or if they do, to manifest any great panic. They set off
crawling over the floor, at a pace which surprise and perhaps some vague
terror made a trifle quicker than usual. Before long they started
describing circles, not because it is, as Plato says, a perfect figure,
but as a result of the instinct that always makes insects turn round and
round, in their efforts to escape any unknown danger. Buffalmacco looked
on from the vantage-ground of his bed, on which he had thrown himself,
and congratulated himself on the success