“Good-bye,” answered Carnesecchi.  “There is plenty of time, as you say.  Perhaps we may meet this evening at the Falcone.”

“Perhaps,” said Marab drily, and turned away.

He had a good understanding of his friend’s character, and though in his present mood he would have been glad to fix the wedding day, and sign the marriage contract at once, he had no intention of yielding to Carnesecchi’s exorbitant demands.  The lawyer was in need of money, Marzio thought, and as he himself was the possessor of what the other coveted, there could be little doubt as to the side on which the advantage would ultimately be taken.  Marzio went half-way up the steps of the Capitol, and then stopped to look at the two wretched wolves which the Roman municipality thinks it incumbent on the descendants of Romulus to support.  He thought one of them very like Carnesecchi.  He watched the poor beasts a moment or two as they tramped and swung and pressed their lean sides against the bars of their narrow cage.

“What a sympathetic animal it is!” he exclaimed aloud.  A passer-by stared at him and then went on hurriedly, fearing that he might be mad.  Indeed, there was a sort of family likeness between the lawyer, the chiseller, and the wolves.

Other thoughts, however, occupied Marzio’s attention; and as soon as he was sure that his friend was out of the way, he descended the steps.  He did not care whither he went, but he had no especial reason for climbing the steep ascent to the Capitol.  The crucifix his brother had ordered from him on the previous evening engaged his attention, and it was as much for the sake of being alone and of thinking about the work that he had taken his solitary morning walk, as with the hope of finding in some church a suggestion or inspiration which might serve him.  He knew what was to be found in Roman churches well enough; the Crucifixion in the Trinita dei Pellegrini and the one in San Lorenzo in Lucina—­both by Guido Reni, and both eminently unsympathetic to his conception of the subject—­he had often looked at them, and did not care to see them again.  At last he entered the Church of the Gesu, and sat down upon a chair in a corner.

He did not look up.  The interior of the building was as familiar to him as the outside.  He sat in profound thought, occasionally twisting his soft hat in his hands, and then again remaining quite motionless.  He did not know how long he stayed there.  The perfect silence was pleasant to him, and when he rose he felt that the idea he had sought was found, and could be readily expressed.  With a sort of sigh of satisfaction he went out again into the air and walked quickly towards his workshop.

The men told him that Gianbattista was busy within, and after glancing sharply at the work which was proceeding, Marzio opened the inner door and entered the studio.  He strode up to the table and took up the body of the ewer, which lay on its pad where he had left it the night before.  He held it in his hands for a moment, and then, pushing the leather cushion towards Gianbattista, laid it down.