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“To-morrow,” said Giorgione, looking back, “to-morrow we begin.”

“To-morrow Zarato comes to me–for his portrait.” Titian spoke quickly, almost harshly. His eyes were on the young man’s face.

The gondola stirred slightly. Every one looked at the young man. He sat staring at Titian, a look half amused and half perplexed in his dark eyes. The look broke and ran. “Is it so!” he said almost gayly.

Titian nodded grimly. “You come to me.”

Giorgione leaned forward. “But I can’t spare him,” he pleaded. “I can’t spare you. The work is late, and the Council hammer at a man! You must wait.”

“Just one day,” said Titian briefly. “I block in the outlines. It can wait then–a year, six months–I care not.”

Giorgione’s face regained its look of good-humor. “But you are foolish, Titian, foolish! Paint doges, if you will, paint popes and dukes–paint gold. But never paint an artist–an artist and a gentleman!”

They laughed merrily and the boat glided on–out into the lagoon and the broad, flooding moonlight.

“Sing something,” said Giorgione. He raised the flute to his lips, breathing into it a gay, gentle air. The lute and cithara, from the opposite side, took it up. Presently the tenor voice joined in, carrying the air with sweet, high notes. They fell softly on the ear.

The slender fingers plucking at the cithara faltered. The bosom beneath its white tunic, where a single pansy glowed, trembled with swift breathing, and the red lips parted in a quick sigh.

Titian looked up, smiling reproachfully: “Violante! ah, Violante!” he murmured softly.

She shook her head smilingly. A tear rested on her cheek. “I cannot help it,” she said; “it is the music.”

“Yes, it is the music,” said Titian. His tone was dry–half cynical.

Her husband looked over with faithful eyes and smiled at her.

Only Zarato had not looked up. His eyes followed the dancing leaden water. A flush had come into his sallow cheek. But the moonlight did not reveal it.

Violante glanced at him timidly.

“Come, we will try again,” she said. She swept her cithara, and the tenor voice took up the notes. “Faster!” she said. The time quickened. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone.

” Chi boit et ne reboit, ne cais qua boir soit,” rang out the voice.

” Qua boir soit–qua boir soit,” repeated Violante softly.

The duet rose, full and sweet and clear, with passionate undertones. Slowly it died away, calling to itself across the lighted water.

The two men applauded eagerly. “Bella!” murmured Giorgione. “Once more!–Bella!” He clapped his hands.

Again the music rose. Once the eyes of the singers met–a long, slow look. The time quickened a little, and the music deepened.

Titian sat watching them, his head in its velvet cap, thrown back against the cushions, his lips smiling dreamily. His eye strayed over the voluptuous figure at his side–the snowy tunic and the ruby-red bodice and skirt. He knew the figure well, the red-gold hair and wondrous eyes. But a new look had come into them–something tender, almost sweet.

He leaned forward as the music ceased. “You shall pose for me,” he said under his breath. “I want you for the Duke’s picture.”

She nodded slightly, her bosom rising and falling.

Giorgione leaned forward, smiling.

“What is that?” he asked. His eyes rested tenderly on the flushed face and the full lips of his wife. “What is it you say?”

“I want her for Bacchante,” said Titian, “for the Duke’s picture.” He had not removed his eyes from her face.

Giorgione smiled. Then his face darkened. “My frescos! Oh, my frescos!” he murmured tragically. “But you will help, Zarato. You will not go paint for dukes and popes?” The tone was half laughing and half querulous.

The young man roused himself and looked at him questioningly. He drew his hand across his eyes. “What is it?” he said dreamily. “What is it?” His face flushed. “Help you? Yes, I will help you–if–I can.”

II

“A little more to the right, please.”