tremble to

think of what might have come of it. see to the skin tint: it is

not to be replaced, for paint as you will, it is not once in a

hundred times that it is not either burned too brown in the

furnace or else the color will not hold, and you get but a sickly

white. there you can see the very veins and the throb of thee

blood. yes, diavolo! if it had broken, my heart would have

broken too. it is for the choir window in the church of st.

remi, and we had gone, my little helper and i, to see if it was

indeed of the size for the stonework. night had fallen ere we

finished, and what could we do save carry it home as best we

might? but you, young sir, you speak as if you too knew

something of the art."

"so little that i scarce dare speak of it in your presence,"

alleyne answered. "i have been cloister-bred, and it was no very

great matter to handle the brush better than my brother novices."

"there are pigments, brush, and paper," said the old artist. "i

do not give you glass, for that is another matter, and takes much

skill in the mixing of colors. now i pray you to show me a touch

of your art. i thank you, tita! the venetian glasses, cara mia,

and fill them to the brim. a seat, signor!"

while ford, in his english-french, was conversing with tita in

her italian french, the old man was carefully examining his

precious head to see that no scratch had been left upon its

surface. when he glanced up again, alleyne had, with a few bold

strokes of the brush, tinted in a woman's face and neck upon the

white sheet in front of him.

"diavolo!" exclaimed the old artist, standing with his head on

one side, "you have power; yes, cospetto! you have power, it is

the face of an angel!"

"it is the face of the lady maude loring!" cried ford, even more

astonished.

"why, on my faith, it is not unlike her!" said alleyne, in some

confusion.

"ah! a portrait! so much the better. young man, i am agostino

pisano, the son of andrea pisano, and i say again that you have

power. further, i say, that, if you will stay with me, i will

teach you all the secrets of the glass-stainers' mystery: the

pigments and their thickening, which will fuse into the glass and

which will not, the furnace and the glazing--every trick and

method you shall know."

"i would be right glad to study under such a master," said

alleyne; "but i am sworn to follow my lord whilst this war

lasts."

"war! war!" cried the old italian. "ever this talk of war. and

the men that you hold to be great--what are they? have i not

heard their names? soldiers, butchers, destroyers! ah, per

bacco! we have men in italy who are in very truth great. you

pull down, you despoil; but they build up, they restore. ah, if

you could but see my own dear pisa, the duomo, the cloisters of

campo santo, the high campanile, with the mellow throb of her

bells upon the warm italian air! those are the works of great

men. and i have seen them with my own eyes, these very eyes

which look upon you. i have seen andrea orcagna, taddeo gaddi,

giottino, stefano, simone memmi--men whose very colors i am not

worthy to mix. and i have seen the aged giotto, and he in turn

was pupil to cimabue, before whom there was no art in italy, for

the greeks were brought to paint the chapel of the gondi at

florence. ah, signori, there are the real great men whose names

will be held in honor when your soldiers are shown to have been

the enemies of humankind."

"faith, sir," said ford, "there is something to say for the

soldiers also, for, unless they be defended, how are all these

gentlemen whom you have mentioned to preserve the pictures which

they have painted?"

"and all these!" said alleyne. "have you indeed done them all?--

and where are they to go?"

"yes, signor, they are all from my hand. some are, as you see,

upon one sheet, and some are in many pieces which may fasten

together, there are some who do but paint upon the glass, and

then, by placing another sheet of glass upon the top and

fastening it, they keep the air from their painting. yet i hold

that the true art of my craft lies as much in the furnace as in

the brush. see this rose window, which is from the model of the

church of the holy trinity at vendome, and this other of the

'finding of the grail,' which is for the apse of the abbey

church. time was when none but my countrymen could do these

things; but there is clement of chartres and others in france who

are very worthy workmen. but, ah! there is that ever shrieking

brazen tongue which will not let us forget for one short hour

that it is the arm of the savage, and not the hand of the master,

which rules over the world."

a stern, clear bugle call had sounded close at hand to summon

some following together for the night.

"it is a sign to us as well," said ford. "i woul