“Finish it,” he said shortly; “I have something else to do.”

The apprentice looked up in astonishment, as though he suspected that Marzio was jesting.

“I am afraid—­” he answered with hesitation.

“It makes no difference; finish it as best you can; I am sick of it; you will do it well enough.  If it is bad, I will take the responsibility.”

“Do you mean me really to finish it—­altogether?”

“Yes; I tell you I have a great work on hand.  I cannot waste my time over such toys as acanthus leaves and cherubs’ eyes!” He bent down and examined the thing carefully.  “You had better lay aside the neck and take up the body just where I left it, Tista,” he continued.  “The scirocco is in your favour.  If it turns cold to-morrow the cement may shrink, and you will have to melt it out again.”

Marzio spoke to him as though there had not been the least difference between them, as though Gianbattista had not proposed to cut his throat the night before, as though he himself had not proposed to marry Carnesecchi to Lucia.

“Take my place,” he said.  “The cord is the right length for you, as it is too short for me.  I am going to model.”

Without more words Marzio went and took a large and heavy slate from the corner, washed it carefully, and dried it with his handkerchief.  Then he provided himself with a bowl full of twisted lengths of red wax, and with a couple of tools he sat down to his work.  Gianbattista, having changed his seat, looked over the tools his master had been using, with a workman’s keen glance, and, taking up his own hammer, attacked the task given him.  For some time neither of the men spoke.

“I have been to church,” remarked Marzio at last, as he softened a piece of wax between his fingers before laying it on the slate.  The news was so astounding that Gianbattista uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“You need not be frightened,” answered the artist.  “I only went to look at a picture, and I did not look at it after all.  I shall go to a great many more churches before I have finished this piece of work.  You ought to go to the churches and study, Tista.  Everything is useful in our art—­pictures, statues, mosaics, metal-work.  Now I believe there is not a really good crucifix, nor a crucifixion, in Rome.  It is strange, too, I have dreamed of one all my life.”

Gianbattista did not find any answer ready in reply to the statement.  The words sounded so strangely in Marzio’s mouth this morning, that the apprentice was confused.  And yet the two had often discussed the subject before.

“You do not seem to believe me,” continued Marzio quietly.  “I assure you it is a fact.  The other things of the kind are not much better either.  Works of art, perhaps, but not satisfactory.  Even Michael Angelo’s Pieta in Saint Peter’s does not please me.  They say it did not please the people of his time either—­he was too young to do anything of that sort—­he was younger than you, Tista, only twenty-four years old when he made that statue.”