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“I will remember,” said Giorgione soberly. The next moment he had disappeared in the maze of buildings.

Titian, looking after him, shook his head slowly. He turned and gathered up some tools from a bench near by…. The look in his friend’s eyes haunted him.

V

It still haunted him as he laid out brushes and colors in his studio for the appointed sitting with Zarato.

He brought the canvas from the wall and placed it on the easel and stood back, examining it critically. His face lighted and he hummed softly, gazing at the rough outline…. Slowly, in the smudge of the vague face, gleaming eyes formed themselves–Giorgione’s eyes! They looked out at him, pathetic and fierce.

With an exclamation of disgust he threw down the brush. He looked about him for his cap, and found it at last–on the back of his head. He settled it more firmly in place. “There will be time,” he muttered. “I shall be back in time.” With a swift glance about him he was gone from the room, and on the way to Giorgione’s studio.

As he opened the door he saw Giorgione’s great figure huddled together against the eastern window. Bars of light fell across it and danced on the floor. Titian crossed the studio quickly and touched the bent shoulder.

The eyes that looked up were those that had called him. Giorgione’s eyes–a fierce, pathetic light in their depths. They gazed at him stupidly. “What is it?” asked the man. He spoke thickly and half rose, gazing curiously about the room. He ran a hand across his forehead and looked at Titian vaguely. “What is it?” he repeated.

Titian fell back a step. “That’s what I came to find out,” he said frankly. He was more startled than he cared to show.

“What has happened, Giorgione?” His tone was gentle, as if speaking to a child, and he took him by the shoulder to lead him to a seat.

For a moment the man resisted. Then he let himself be led, passively, and sank back in the chair with a hoarse sigh. He looked about the studio as if seeking something–and afraid of it. “She’s gone!” he whispered.

Titian started. “No!”

Giorgione laughed harshly. “Fled as a bird,” he said gayly, “a bird that was snared.” He hummed a few bars of the song and stopped, his gaze fixed on vacancy. A great shudder broke through him, and he buried his face in his hands. There was no movement but the heave of his shoulders, and no sound. The light upon the floor danced in the stillness.

Titian’s eyes rested on it, perplexed. He crossed the room swiftly and touched a bell. He gave an order and waited with his hand on his friend’s shoulder till the servant returned.

“Drink this,” he said firmly, bending over him. He was holding a long, slender glass to his lips.

The man quaffed it–slowly at first, then eagerly. “Yes, that is good!” he said as he drained the glass. “I tremble here.” He laid his hand on his heart. “And my hand is strange.” He smiled–a wan, wintry smile–and looked at his friend with searching eyes.

“Where have they gone?” he demanded.

Titian shook his head. “How should I know?”

“He said he was going to you.”

“Zarato?” Titian started. “For the portrait–He will be there!”

Giorgione broke into a harsh laugh. “No portrait for Zarato!” He said it exultantly.

“What do you mean!”

“He bears a beauty mark.” He laughed again.

“You did not—-?”

Giorgione glanced cunningly about the studio. His big face worked and his eyes were flushed. He laid his hand on his lips.

“Hush!” he said. “It is a secret–I–she–branded him with this.” A piece of heavy iron lay on the sill–the wood near it blackened and charred. He took it up fondly.

“Look!” He pointed to the fire-worn end.

Titian shrank back in horror. “You are mad!” he said.

Giorgione shook his head sadly. “I wish I were mad … my eyes have seen too much.” He rubbed his hand across them vaguely.