urse had been dipped into again and again. Commissions without
number had been executed for him--rings and stones and tapestries,
carvings and stag-antlers, and cups and silks and velvet--till the
Pirkheimer mansion glowed with color from the South and delicate
workmanship from the North. Other pictures from Duerer's brush adorned
its walls--grotesque monks and gentle Virgins. But the Face bided its
time against the wall.

To-day--for the first time in twenty-five years--the Face of the Christ
was turned to the light. The hand that drew it from its place had not
the supple fingers of the painter. Those fingers, stiffened and white,
lay upon a quiet breast--outside the city wall.

The funeral cortege had trotted briskly back, and Agnes Duerer had come
directly to the studio, with its low, arched window, to take account of
her possessions. It was all hers--the money the artist had toiled to
leave her, the work that had shortened life, and the thousand Rhenish
guldens in the hands of the most worthy Rath; the pictures and
copperplates, the books he had written and the quaint curios he had
loved--they were all hers, except, perhaps, the copperplates for
Andreas. Her level glance swept them as she crossed to the canvas
against the wall and lifted it to a place on the easel. She had often
begged him to sell the picture. It was large and would bring a good
price. Her eyes surveyed it with satisfaction. A look of dismay crossed
the smooth face. She leaned forward and searched the picture eagerly.
The dismay deepened to anger. He had neglected to sign it! She knew well
the value of the tiny monogram that marked the canvases about her. A
sound clicked in her throat. She reached out her white hand to a brush
on the bench beside her. There would be no wrong done. It was Albrecht's
work--his best work. Her eyes studied the modelling of the delicate,
strong face--the Christ face--Albrecht's face--at thirty-three.... Had
he looked like that? She stared at it vaguely. She moved away, looking
about her for a bit of color. She found it and came again to the easel.
She reached out her hand for the brush. A slip of paper tucked beneath
the canvas caught her eye. She drew it out slowly, unfolding it with
curious fingers. "This picture of the Christ is the sole property of my
dear and honored friend, the Herr Willibald Pirkheimer. I have given it
to him and his heirs to have and to hold forever. Signed by me, this
day, June 8, 1503, in my h