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The smile of satisfaction deepened on his lips. It was not conceit, nor humility, nor pride. One could not have named the sweetness that hovered in it–hauntingly.

He laid down the brush with a quick breath and sat gazing at the picture. It returned the gentle, inevitable look. He raised a finger to the portrait, speaking softly. “It is Albrecht Duerer–his work,” he said under his breath. “None but a fool can mistake it. It shall speak for him forever.”

II

For a quarter of a century the picture had rested, face to the wall, on the floor of the small, dark studio. Pirkheimer had demanded his treasure–sometimes with jests, and sometimes with threats. But the picture had remained unmoved against the wall.

Journeys to Italy and to the Netherlands had intervened. Pirkheimer’s velvet purse 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 home in Nuernberg, 15 Zisselstrasse, Albrecht Duerer.”

She crushed the paper in firm fingers. A door had opened behind her. The discreet servant, in mourning garments, with downcast, reddened eyes, waited. “His Highness the Herr Pirkheimer is below, my lady.”

For a moment she hesitated. Then her fingers opened on the bit of paper. It fluttered to the table and lay full in sight. She looked at it with her thin smile. “Ask Herr Pirkheimer to ascend to the studio. I shall receive him here,” she said.

He entered facing the easel. With an exclamation he sprang forward. He laid a hand on the canvas. The small eyes blinked at her.