The page he was illuminating was the prophetic Psalm which describes the ignominy and sufferings of the Redeemer.  It was surrounded by a wreathed border of thorn-branches interwoven with the blossoms and tendrils of the passion-flower, and the initial letters of the first two words were formed by a curious combination of the hammer, the nails, the spear, the crown of thorns, the cross, and other instruments of the Passion; and clear, in red letter, gleamed out those wonderful, mysterious words, consecrated by the remembrance of a more than mortal anguish,—­“My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

The artist-monk had perhaps fled to his palette to assuage the throbbings of his heart, as a mourning mother flies to the cradle of her child; but even there his grief appeared to have overtaken him, for the work lay as if pushed from him in an access of anguish such as comes from the sudden recurrence of some overwhelming recollection.  He was leaning forward with his face buried in his hands, sobbing convulsively.

The door opened, and a man advancing stealthily behind laid a hand kindly on his shoulder, saying softly, “So, so, brother!”

Father Antonio looked up, and, dashing his hand hastily across his eyes, grasped that of the new-comer convulsively, and saying only, “Oh, Baccio!  Baccio!” hid his face again.

The eyes of the other filled with tears, as he answered gently,—­

“Nay, but, my brother, you are killing yourself.  They tell me that you have eaten nothing for three days, and slept not for weeks; you will die of this grief.”

“Would that I might!  Why could not I die with him as well as Fra Domenico?  Oh, my master! my dear master!”

“It is indeed a most heavy day to us all,” said Baccio della Porta, the amiable and pure-minded artist better known to our times by his conventual name of Fra Bartolommeo.  “Never have we had among us such a man; and if there be any light of grace in my soul, his preaching first awakened it, brother.  I only wait to see him enter Paradise, and then I take farewell of the world forever.  I am going to Prato to take the Dominican habit, and follow him as near as I may.”

“It is well, Baccio, it is well,” said Father Antonio; “but you must not put out the light of your genius in those shadows,—­you must still paint for the glory of God.”

“I have no heart for painting now,” said Baccio, dejectedly.  “He was my inspiration, he taught me the holier way, and he is gone.”

At this moment the conference of the two was interrupted by a knocking at the door, and Agostino Sarelli entered, pale and disordered.

“How is this?” he said, hastily.  “What devils’ carnival is this which hath broken loose in Florence?  Every good thing is gone into dens and holes, and every vile thing that can hiss and spit and sting is crawling abroad.  What do the princes of Europe mean to let such things be?”