ated, looking from the lady to the painter,
inarticulate.

"The Signor"--he gasped--"his horse--they bring him--dead."

She stirred slightly where she stood. Her eyelids fell. "Go, Salai.
Await your master's commands in the hall below."

She turned to the painter as the draperies closed. "I trust that you
will make all use of our service, Signor Leonardo, in removing from the
palace. The apartments will, I fear, be needed for relatives. They will
come to honor the dead."

He stood for a moment stupefied, aghast at her control of practical,
feminine detail; then moved toward her. "Lisa----"

She motioned toward the easel. "Payment for the picture will be sent you
soon."

"The picture goes with me. It is not finished."

"It is well." She bowed mockingly. The little door swung noiselessly
behind her. He was left alone with the portrait. It was looking sideways
at the fallen Bambino amid the shattered fragments on the floor.

II

It was the French monarch. He fluttered restlessly about the studio,
urbane, enthusiastic. He paused to finger some ingenious toy, to praise
some drawing or bit of sunlit color that caught his fancy. The painter,
smiling at the frank enthusiasm, followed leisurely from room to room.
The wandering Milanese villa was a treasure house. Bits of marble and
clay, curious mechanical contrivances, winged creatures, bats and
creeping things mingled with the canvases. Color and line ran riot on
the walls. A few finished pieces had been placed on easels, in
convenient light, for the royal inspection. Each of these, in turn, the
volatile monarch had exalted. He had declared that everything in the
villa, including the gifted owner, must return with him to France.

"That is the place for men like you!" he exclaimed, standing before a
small, exquisitely finished Madonna. "What do these Milanese know of
art? Or the Florentines, for that matter? Your 'Last Supper'--I saw it
last week. It is a blur. Would that the sainted Louis might have taken
it bodily, stone by stone, to our France, as he longed to do. You will
see; the mere copy has more honor with us than the original here. Come
with us," he added persuasively, laying his hand on the painter's shabby
sleeve.

The painter looked down from his height on the royal suitor. "You do me
too much honor, sire. I am an old man."

"You are Leonardo da Vinci," said the other stoutly, "the painter of
these pictures. I shall carry them all away, and yo