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The young man stirred. “I care not. He must suffer–as she suffered,” he added with slow significance.

“Would that content you? Would you go away–and not return?”

“I would go–yes.”

Titian waited, his eyes on the gloved hand. “You can go,” he said at last, “the Lord has avenged her.”

The young man leaned forward. His breath came sharply. “What do you mean?”

“That she is avenged,” said Titian slowly. “Giorgione cannot live the year. Go away. Leave him to die in peace.”

“I did not ask for peace,” said the young man grimly.

Titian turned on him fiercely. “His heart breaks. He dies drop by drop!”

The young man smiled.

Titian watched him closely. “You need not fear his not suffering,” he said significantly. “Go watch through his window, or by a crack in the door.”–He waited a breath. “The man is mad!”

The young man started sharply.

“Mad!” repeated Titian.

Zarato turned on him a look of horror and exultation. “Mad!” he repeated softly. The gloved hand trembled.

A look of relief stole into Titian’s face. “Does that satisfy you?” he asked quietly. “Will you go?”

“Yes, I will go.” The young man rose. He moved toward the door. “Mad!” he whispered softly.

“Wait,” said Titian. He sprang before him. “Not by daylight–you would be murdered in the open street! You must wait till night…. I shall row you, myself, out from the city. It is arranged. A boat waits for you.”

The young man looked at him gratefully. “You take this risk for me?” he said humbly.

“For you and Giorgione and for–her.”

They sat silent.

“He will never paint again,” said the young man, looking up quickly with the thought.

Titian shook his head. “Never again,” he said slowly.

The young man looked at him. “There are a dozen pictures begun,” he said, “a dozen and more.”

“Yes.”

“Who will finish them?”

“Who can tell?” The painter’s face had clouded.

“Shall you?”

Titian returned the suspicious gaze frankly. “It is not likely,” he said. “He will not speak to me or see me. He says I am false to him–I harbor you.”

The young man’s gaze fell. “I will go,” he said humbly. He shivered a little.

“And not return till I send for you.”

“I will not return–till you send for me!”

VII

Venice laughed in the sunshine. Gay-colored boats flitted here and there on the Grand Canal, and overhead the birds of Venus sailed in the warm air.

A richly equipped gondola, coming down the canal, made its way among the moving boats. Its occupant, a dark, handsome man, sitting alone among the crimson cushions, looked out on the hurrying scene with watchful eyes. Other eyes from passing gondolas returned the glance with curious, smiling gaze and drifted past. No one challenged him and none remembered. Two years is overlong for laughing Venice to hold a grudge or to remember a man–when the waters close over him…. Slowly the boat drifted on, and the dark eyes of the man feasted on the flow and change of color…. “Bride of the Sea,” he murmured as the boat swept on. “Bride of the Sea–There is none like thee in beauty or power!” His eyes, rapt with the vision, grew misty. He raised an impatient hand to them, and let it fall again to his knee. It rested there, strong and supple. The seal of a massive ring broke its whiteness. The other hand, incased in a rich glove, rested on the edge of the gondola. The man’s eyes sought it for a moment and turned away to the gay scene.

With a skilful turn the boat had come to rest at the foot of a flight of stairs leading to a richly carved doorway. The young man leaped out and ran up the steps. The great silent door swung open to his touch, and he disappeared within.

Titian, standing by his easel, looked up quickly. “You are come!” He sprang forward, holding out his hands.

The young man took them, looking into the welcoming eyes. “I am come,” he said slowly.