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fish, serpents' bodies and bats' wings. This sore resentment which they
felt will come out plainly in the history of Spinello of Arezzo.

Spinello Spinelli was sprung of a noble family of Florentine exiles, and
his graciousness of mind matched his gentle birth; for he was the most
skilful painter of his time. He wrought many and great works at
Florence; and the Pisans begged him to complete Giotto's wall-paintings
in their Campo Santo, where the dead rest beneath roses in holy earth
shipped from Jerusalem. At last, after working long years in divers
cities and getting much gold, he longed to see once more the good city
of Arezzo, his mother. The men of Arezzo had not forgotten how Spinello,
in his younger days, being enrolled in the Confraternity of Santa Maria
della Misericordia, had visited the sick and buried the dead in the
plague of 1383. They were grateful to him beside for having by his works
spread the fame of their city over all Tuscany. For all these reasons
they welcomed him with high honours on his return.

Still full of vigour in his old age, he undertook important tasks in his
native town. His wife would tell him:

"You are rich, Spinello. Do you rest, and leave younger men to paint
instead of you. It is meet a man should end his days in a gentle,
religious quiet. It is tempting God to be for ever raising new and
worldly monuments, mere heathen towers of Babel. Quit your colours and
your varnishes, Spinello, or they will destroy your peace of mind."

So the good dame would preach, but he refused to listen, for his one
thought was to increase his fortune and renown. Far from resting on his
laurels, he arranged a price with the Wardens of Sant' Agnolo for a
history of St. Michael, that was to cover all the Choir of the Church
and contain an infinity of figures. Into this enterprise he threw
himself with extraordinary ardour. Rereading the parts of Scripture that
were to be his inspiration, he set himself to study deeply every line
and every word of these passages. Not content with drawing all day long
in his workshop, he persisted in working both at bed and board; while at
dusk, walking below the hill on whose brow Arezzo proudly lifts her
walls and towers, he was still lost in thought. And we may say the story
of the Archangel was already limned in his brain when he started to
sketch out the incidents in red chalk on the plaster of the wall. He was
soon done tracing these outlines; then he fell to pai