“Because you are a traitor to the cause,” cried Marzio, with sudden fierceness.  “Because you are a friend of Paolo.  Is not that enough?”

“Poor Don Paolo seems to stick in your throat,” observed Gianbattista.  “I do not see what he has done, except that he prevented me from killing you last night!”

“Paolo!  Paolo is a snake, a venomous viper!  It is his business, his only aim in life, to destroy my peace, to pervert my daughter from the wholesome views I have tried to teach her, to turn you aside from the narrow path of austere Italian virtue, to draw you away from following in the footsteps of Brutus, of Cassius, of the great Romans, of me, your teacher and master!  That is all Paolo cares for, and it is enough—­more than enough!  And he shall pay me for his presumptuous interference, the villain!”

Marzio’s voice sank into a hissing whisper as he bent over the wax he was twisting and pressing.  Gianbattista glanced at his pale face, and inwardly wondered at the strange mixture of artistic genius, of bombastic rhetoric and relentless hatred, all combined in the strange man whom destiny had given him for a master.  He wondered, too, how he had ever been able to admire the contrasts of virulence and weakness, of petty hatred and impossible aspirations which had of late revealed themselves to him in a new light.  Have we not most of us assisted at the breaking of the Image of Baal, at the destruction of an imaginary representative of an illogical ideal?

“Well, Sor Marzio,” said Gianbattista after a pause, “if I were to return to my worship of you and your principles—­what would you do?  Would you take me back to your friendship and give me your daughter?”

Marzio looked up suddenly, and stared at the apprentice in surprise.  But the fresh young face gave no sign.  Gianbattista had spoken quietly, and was again intent upon his work.

“If you gave me a proof of your sincerity,” answered Marzio, in low tones, “I would do much for you.  Yes, I would give you Lucia—­and the business too, when I am too old to work.  But it must be a serious proof—­no child’s play.”

“What do you call a serious proof?  A profession of faith?”

“Yes—­sealed with the red wax that is a little thicker than water,” answered Marzio grimly, his eyes still fixed on Gianbattista’s face.

“In blood,” said the young man calmly.  “Whose blood would you like, Sor Marzio?”

“Paolo’s!”

The chiseller spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and bent low over his slate, modelling hard at the figure under his fingers.

“I thought so,” muttered Gianbattista between his teeth.  Then he raised his voice a little and continued:  “And have you the courage, Sor Marzio, to sit there and bargain with me to kill your brother, bribing me with the offer of your daughter’s hand?  Why do you not kill him yourself, since you talk of such things?”

“Nonsense, my dear Tista—­I was only jesting,” said the other nervously.  “It is just like your folly to take me in earnest.”  The anger had died out of Marzio’s voice and he spoke almost persuasively.