“I am glad I did not do it,” he said aloud after some minutes.

Still he gazed at his work, and the impression stole over him that but for a slight thing he might yet have killed his brother.  If he had left the figure more securely propped upon the pad, it could not have slipped upon the bench; it could not have made that small distinct sound just as he was examining the place which was to have been his brother’s grave; he would not have been suddenly frightened; he would not have gone over the matter in his mind as he had done, from the point of view of a future fear; he would have waited anxiously for another opportunity, and when it presented itself he would have struck the blow, and Paolo would have been dead, if not to-day, to-morrow.  There would have been a search which might or might not have resulted in the discovery of the body.  Then there would have been, the heartrending grief of his wife, of Lucia, and the black suspicious looks of Gianbattista.  The young man had heard him express a wish that Paolo might disappear.  His home would have been a hell, instead of being emancipated from tyranny as he had at first imagined.  Discovery and conviction would have come at last, the galleys for life for himself, dishonour and contempt for his family.

He remembered Paolo’s words as he stood contemplating the crucifix just before that moment which had nearly been his last. Qui propter nos homines et propter nostram salutem—­“Who for us men and for our salvation came down from Heaven.”  In a strange revulsion of feeling Marzio applied the words to himself, with an odd simplicity that was at once pathetic and startling.

“If Christ had not died,” he said to himself, “I should not have made this crucifix.  If I had not made it, it would not have frightened me.  I should have killed my brother.  It has saved me.  ’For us men and for our salvation’—­those are the words—­for my salvation, it is very strange.  Poor Paolo!  If he knew to what he owed his life he would be pleased.  Who can believe such things?  Who would have believed this if I had told it?  And yet it is true.”

For some minutes still he gazed at the figure.  Then he shook himself as though to rouse his mind from a trance, and took up his tools.  He did not glance behind him again, and, for the time at least, his nervous dislike of the box in the corner seemed to have ceased.  He laboured with patient care, touching and re-touching, believing that each tap of the hammer should be the last, and yet not wholly satisfied.

The light waned, and he took down the curtain to admit the last glows of the evening.  He could do no more, art itself could have done no more to beautify and perfect the masterpiece that lay upon the cushion before him.  The many hours he had spent in putting the last finish upon the work had produced their result.  His hand had imparted something to the features of the dying head which had not been there before, and