“Why should Prince Borghese live in a palace and keep scores of horses?” inquired the young man calmly.

“Ay—­why should he?  Is there any known reason why he should?  Am I not a man as well as he?  Are you not a man—­you young donkey?  I hate to think that we, who are artists, who can work when we are put to it, have to slave for such fellows as that—­mumbling priests, bloated princes, a pack of fools who are incapable of an idea!  An idea!  What am I saying?  Who have not the common intelligence of a cabbage-seller in the street!  And look at the work we give them—­the creation of our minds, the labour of our hands—­”

“They give us their money in return,” observed Gianbattista.  “The ancients, whom you are so fond of talking about, used to get their work done by slaves chained to the bench—­”

“Yes!  And it has taken us two thousand years to get to the point we have reached!  Two thousand years—­and what is it?  Are we any better than slaves, except that we work better?”

“I doubt whether we work better.”

“What is the matter with you this morning?” cried Marzio.  “Have you been sneaking into some church on your way here?  Pah!  You smell of the sacristy!  Has Paolo been here?  Oh, to think that a brother of mine should be a priest!  It is not to be believed!”

“It is the irony of fate.  Moreover, he gets you plenty of orders.”

“Yes, and no doubt he takes his percentage on the price.  He had a new cloak last month, and he asked me to make him a pair of silver buckles for his shoes.  Pretty, that—­an artist’s brother with silver buckles!  I told him to go to the devil, his father, for his ornaments.  Why does he not steal an old pair from the cardinal, his bondmaster?  Not good enough, I suppose—­beast!”

Marzio laid aside his hammer and chisel, and lit the earthen pipe with the rough wooden stem that lay beside him.  Then he examined the beautiful head of the angel he had been making upon the body of the ewer.  He touched it lovingly, loosed the cord, and lifted the piece from the pad, turning it towards the light and searching critically for any defect in the modelling of the little face.  He replaced it on the table, and selecting a very fine-pointed punch, laid down his pipe for a moment and set about putting the tiny pupils into the eyes.  Two touches were enough.  He began smoking again, and contemplated what he had done.  It was the body of a large silver ewer of which Gianbattista was ornamenting the neck and mouth, which were of a separate piece.  Amongst the intricate arabesques little angels’-heads were embossed, and on one side a group of cherubs was bearing a “monstrance” with the sacred Host through silver clouds.  A hackneyed subject on church vessels, but which had taken wonderful beauty under the skilled fingers of the artist, who sat cursing the priest who was to use it, while expending his best talents on its perfections.