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“Sleep–” he murmured. “A little sleep.” The potion was beginning to take effect.

Titian laid him on the couch near by and hurried from the studio.

“Home!” he said to the white-robed gondolier who looked back for orders. “Home! Row for life!”

A sense of vague horror haunted him. He dared not think what tragedy might be enacting. A man of Zarato’s proud spirit–“Faster!” he called to the laboring gondolier, and the boat shot under the awning.

With a sigh of relief he closed the door of his studio behind him…. On the couch across the room, his cap fallen to the floor and his arms hanging at his sides, lay the young man asleep. Titian moved forward, scanning eagerly the dark, handsome face. Deep shadows lay under the closed lids, and a look of scornful suffering touched the lines of the mouth. Slowly his eyes traversed the figure. He gave a start and bent closer, his eyes peering forward…. The left hand trailing on the floor was gloved, but above the low wrist a faint line shot up–a blotch on the firm flesh.

With an exclamation of horror he dropped to his knees and lifted the hand.

It rested limply in his grasp.

Slowly the eyes opened and looked out at him. A faint flush overspread the young man’s face. He withdrew the hand and sat up. “I came to tell you the portrait–must wait,” he said apologetically, “I fell asleep.” He picked up his cap from the floor and smoothed its ruffled surface. “I must go now.” He looked awkwardly at his friend and got to his feet.

“Zarato,” said Titian sternly. “Where is she?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know,” slowly.

“You don’t know! She has left home—-“

“But not with me.”

The two men stood staring at each other.

There was a sound of steps in the hall and the door swung open. It was a group of Venetian boatmen, bearing in their midst a wet, sagging form. The red-gold hair trailed heavily. They moved stolidly across the room and laid their burden on the low bench. The oldest of them straightened his back and looked apologetically at the wet marks on the shining floor.

“He said to bring her here, Signor.” He motioned clumsily toward the wet figure. “He said so.”

“Who said it?” said Titian harshly.

“Signor–The Signor–Giorgione…. We took her there. He would not let us in. He stood at the window. He was laughing. He said to bring her here,” ended the old man stolidly. “She is long dead.” He bent to pick up the heavy litter. The group shuffled from the room.

Slowly the young man crossed to the bench. He knelt by the motionless figure and, drawing the glove from his hand, laid it on the breast that shone in the wet folds.

“I swear, before God–” he said … “before God!” He swayed heavily and fell forward.

The artist sprang to his side. As he touched him, his eye fell on the ungloved hand…. Shuddering, he reached over and lifted the glove from the wet breast. He drew it over the hand, covering it from sight.

VI

“You must go!” said Titian sternly.

The young man looked at him dully, almost appealingly. He shook his head. “I have work to do.”

Titian lifted an impatient hand. “The people will not permit it–I tell you!” He spoke harshly. “Giorgione is their idol. It has been hard to keep them–this one week! Only my promise that you go at once holds them.”

The young man smiled, a little cynically. “Do you think I fear death–I crave it!” His arms fell at his sides.

His companion looked at him intently. “What is your plan?” he asked shortly.

“Giorgione–” The voice was tense. “He shall pay–to the uttermost!”

“For that?” Titian made a motion toward the gloved hand.

The young man raised it with a scornful gesture.

“For that”–he spoke sternly–“I would not touch the dog. It is for her!” His voice dropped.

Titian waited a moment. “What would you do?” he asked in a low voice.