at him anew, and with the awakening of a little friendly wonder.
"A stranger? Ah, then, this is new to thee—this most beautiful part of Italy. I assure thee," he continued excitedly, "I have been through the fairest parts of Tuscany, I have wandered about Naples, but never have I seen such colors, such lights as here!" Again he waved his all-inclusive hand. "Thou, messer, as a stranger, must see how wonderfully fair it is?"
He paddled the boat nearer among the reeds in his eagerness to obtain new sympathy.
"I have not been used to judge lands by their beauty," returned Francisco. "Yet methinks I have seen spots as beautiful and easier to hold in time of need."
The other twisted his mouth in contempt. The girl leaned forward, laughing. "You forget, father," she said, "everyone is not a painter."
But the little man, as if he had found a sudden mission, secured the boat, and, still in silence, stepped ashore, helping his daughter to follow him. Francisco, preoccupied and mistrustful, saw this with uneasiness, and would gladly have withdrawn. Moreover, the smiling face of the happy girl was an added sting to a burning thought.
The enthusiast, however, had no idea of giving up a possible convert, and swept aside the other's protestations while he commenced pointing out the beauties of the yellow lichen against the villa wall, the sight of which had restored all his good humor.
"See!" he exclaimed. "How bright it is! See the contrast of the yew—so brilliant, yet so in harmony, so—you do not paint?"
"No," said Francisco between grimness and scorn. "Do I look as if I did?"
The artist glanced anew at his huge frame and tattered attire, and mentally decided he did not.
"Ah, then thou dost not understand," he said; "but I, I am a painter. Agnolo Vistarnini is my name, messer, a student of Taddeo Gaddi." He swept off his leather cap with an air of profound respect.
"Ah, he could paint! I am far behind him, messer, but I can see! I can see! Which thou canst not," he added with superb pity.
"Graziosa," he called, turning to his daughter, "we will stay here awhile."
And seating himself on the bank, he produced from his wallet a panel of wood, polished and carefully planed, upon which he began to draw the outline of a corner of the scene, using a dark brown pigment.
Francisco fell again to brooding while the painter chattered on, dividing his attention between the panel and his daughter, who was wandering up the stream, filling with flowers a flat basket.
"Thou see'st yonder my daughter, messer," he said, pointing to the slender figure in blue. He blew a kiss in her direction. "She is the model for my angels——"
"And the model for thy devils?" asked Francisco suddenly.
Vistarnini started and looked around at the speaker.
"Devils! Messer!" He crossed himself. "God forbid there should be a model for such found anywhere," he said.
"Yet methinks thou hast in thy city yonder," said Francisco with a bitter smile, "one who well might sit for the fiend himself: Visconti."
"The Duke? Ah, my friend, hush, hush, thou art a stranger, take care! Even in this lonely spot such words are far from safe. Who art thou, messer, who dost not live in Milan and yet speak with such a look of the Visconti?"
"Do not all who know the Visconti speak with such a look of him?"
The painter gazed at him in silence.
"But thou askest for my name," continued the other. "I am Francisco di Coldra, one who has suffered much from the Visconti."
"In the sack of Verona, perhaps?" asked Agnolo after a pause.
"The sack of Verona was three months ago. The prisoners have been in Milan twenty days!"
These words were inscrutable, and the little painter did not even try to understand them; but they kindled a memory that would not be repressed.
"Ah, and what a night that was," he cried, "when the Duke re-entered Milan with them! Since I do not hurt thee by the recollection, messer, let me tell thee, it was a splendid sight, that night the Duke returned. I live a quiet life, as an artist may do, even in Milan. I know little, I care little for the wars of princes. They tell me the Visconti's crimes outnumber the stars; but, messer, his shadow has not fallen across my house, and what one does not see one does not fear—but when he returned from Verona! that was a sight, messer. It was late. Our house overlooks the western gates, and all day long the messengers had come and sped, bringing the news the Duke was here. Toward evening—we leaning from the window as did everyone—Alberic da Salluzzo comes galloping to the walls—red-hot upon some report that the Visconti has been slain—to look to the arming of the citizens. Even as we strain from the window, following the flash of his plumes—back he comes in madder haste—the Visconti is alive! The people shout and yell, and some cry 'tis not the Visconti's army on the road, but Della Scala's. Meanwhile a mob, with Napoleone della Torre at their head, begins to agitate, to threaten riot. With a strong hand Alberic puts them down—the streets are cleared, Graziosa and I on the balcony, all is dark, silent, save now and then the clink of the armor of the sentries on the walls. I am too excited for sleep, messer, all so hushed, so subdued, waiting, waiting. All at once it comes. Oh, the rattle, the roar! The great gates clatter back, the streets fill with crowds no man can keep back. The victorious army pelts through them; two men on every horse, great flaring torches throwing their yellow light on the torn banners and the wild faces of the soldiers, and then the cannon, leaping over the rough stones, drawn by the smoke-blackened gunners, all tearing, rushing through the street, a mass of light and shade, wonderful, wonderful! In the midst, the Visconti, the ragged light streaming over his tattered armor, and Isotta d'Este, guarded between two soldiers, swaying on her black horse, and above all the shouts of the frenzied triumph of the Milanese. … Ah!"
Agnolo paused now for want of breath, and glanced at his companion.
But Francisco offered no response. His face was turned away, and his hands were clenched. The little painter had a vague sense of having allowed a mere artist's enthusiasm to carry him too far into a dangerous theme.
"Ah, well," he continued in a deprecating tone, "a splendid sight truly, and one to fire the blood, but I am a man of peace, and I greatly grieve Della Scala should have perished. He was a noble prince."
The stranger rose abruptly.
"Do not speak of Della Scala," he said harshly. "I love to hear his name as little as Visconti's. His was the crime of failure."
"Failure! Who would not have failed?" said Agnolo gently, for he thought he spoke to one who must have lost his all in the sacked town. "I know little of such things, but 'twas here and there asserted he fell by craft as well as force, and he was a great soldier and an honorable man, Messer Francisco."
"He had all the virtues, doubtless," said Francisco, "and lost Verona."
"And his life!" replied the painter. "Ah, well, these things are grievous! The saints protect my daughter from all share in them," and he glanced affectionately toward Graziosa, returning through the gray-green willows with lilies in her hands.
"For my pictures," said the painter, pointing to them. "I am painting an altar-piece—for the lunettes. I shall have Graziosa as St. Katherine, and Ambrogio (her betrothed, messer) as St. Michael. These flowers will make the border."
He took some as he spoke, and began arranging them in wreaths.
Francisco would scarcely have heeded the speaker's words, save that his glance was caught almost involuntarily by the girl's sweet blush at mention of her lover's name.
"Thy betrothed," he murmured, interested a moment in the happiness that was such a contrast to his own feeling. "And does he paint too?"
Graziosa looked up with sparkling eyes.
"Beautifully," she said eagerly. "He is at work now