“And the Tintoretto, at Santa Maria dell’ Orto?”

“He, too, is a furioso, wonderful in form—­and the Michelangelo had not the coloring of our Jacopo.  But the terror of the Tintoretto is very terrible and very human.  The Michelangelo fills a great gloom with phantasms—­they question—­and one cannot escape.”

“It hath been a morning of delights,” Girolamo said with grave courtesy when the talk had come to an end.  “I thank the master for this honor.”

“Nay,” answered the knightly Veronese; “it is I who have received.  And more, yet more would I ask.  I know not if in this chamber of treasures I may leave the trifle which I came to bring for the bambino?” he added with hesitation, as he placed upon the table his little inlaid box of baubles and his bunch of spicy flowers.  “Yet it was a promise.”

And while Girolamo listened in astonishment he told abruptly the story of his meeting with Marina and the little one, unconsciously weaving his thoughts into such a picture as he talked, that Girolamo recognized the inspiration and was already won to plead his cause.

“This,” continued the artist, unfolding a letter, “is the order which hath been sent me by Fra Paolo Sarpi, of the convent of the Servi, a man most wise and of high repute in Venice.  ‘The face,’ this learned friar sayeth, ’must be full of consolation and one to awaken holy thoughts.  And I, being not an artist’ (which, because he is greater than so many of his craft, he hath the grace to acknowledge!), ’have no other word to say, save that it shall be noble and most spiritual, as befitteth our religion.’  And such a face till now, Messer Girolamo Magagnati—­so beautiful and holy—­I have not found.  But now it is a vision sent to me from heaven, quite other than any picture I have ever dreamed, and I will paint no other for this Madonna of the Servi.  I also, like the Angelo, would give my holiest work for the good of my soul; for the days of man are numbered, though his blood be warm in his veins like wine!  It would be a pious act for the maiden; and if she will most graciously consent, the picture shall be an offering for the altar of the chapel of Consolation in the Servi.”

“I will ask her,” said the father simply, and felt no surprise at what he had granted when he was left alone with his thoughts, for Paolo Cagliari, because of a way he had that men could not resist, already seemed to him a friend; for the rare mingling of knightly grace and artistic enthusiasm, overcoming spasmodically the usual assertiveness of his demeanor, seemed at such moments to mean more than when assumed by those who were never passionate nor brusque, and his very incongruities held a fascination for his friends.

V