a threadbare mantle--had kept his eye fixed
on the Greek, and now said abruptly--

"Young man, I am painting a picture of Sinon deceiving old Priam, and I
should be glad of your face for my Sinon, if you'd give me a sitting."

Tito Melema started and looked round with a pale astonishment in his
face as if at a sudden accusation; but Nello left him no time to feel at
a loss for an answer: "Piero," said the barber, "thou art the most
extraordinary compound of humours and fancies ever packed into a human
skin. What trick wilt thou play with the fine visage of this young
scholar to make it suit thy traitor? Ask him rather to turn his eyes
upward, and thou mayst make a Saint Sebastian of him that will draw
troops of devout women; or, if thou art in a classical vein, put myrtle
about his curls and make him a young Bacchus, or say rather a Phoebus
Apollo, for his face is as warm and bright as a summer morning; it made
me his friend in the space of a `credo.'"

"Ay, Nello," said the painter, speaking with abrupt pauses; "and if thy
tongue can leave off its everlasting chirping long enough for thy
understanding to consider the matter, thou mayst see that thou hast just
shown the reason why the face of Messere will suit my traitor. A
perfect traitor should have a face which vice can write no marks on--
lips that will lie with a dimpled smile--eyes of such agate-like
brightness and depth that no infamy can dull them--cheeks that will rise
from a murder and not look haggard. I say not this young man is a
traitor: I mean, he has a face that would make him the more perfect
traitor if he had the heart of one, which is saying neither more nor
less than that he has a beautiful face, informed with rich young blood,
that will be nourished enough by food, and keep its colour without much
help of virtue. He may have the heart of a hero along with it; I aver
nothing to the contrary. Ask Domenico there if the lapidaries can
always tell a gem by the sight alone. And now I'm going to put the tow
in my ears, for thy chatter and the bells together are more than I can
endure: so say no more to me, but trim my beard."

With these last words Piero (called "di Cosimo," from his master, Cosimo
Rosselli) drew out two bits of tow, stuffed them in his ears, and placed
himself in the chair before Nello, who shrugged his shoulders and cast a
grimacing look of intelligence at the Greek, as much as to say, "A
whimsical fellow, you perceive! Every