case, until it should be found after his death.  It had seemed priceless to him, and he would not sell it.  With a fantastic eccentricity of reasoning he regarded it as a sacred thing, to part with which would be a desecration.  So he kept it.  Then, taking it out again, it had seemed less good to him, as his mind became occupied with other things, and he had fancied he should do better yet.  At last he screwed it up in a wooden case and put it at the bottom of his strong box, resolving never to look at it again.  Many years had passed since he had laid eyes upon it.

The idea which had come to him when Paolo had communicated the order to him on the previous evening, had seemed absolutely new.  It had appeared to him as a glorification of the work he had executed in secret so long ago.  Time, and the habit of dissatisfaction had effaced from his mind the precise image of the work of the past, and the emotions of the present had seemed something new to him.  He had drawn and modelled during many hours, and yet he was utterly disappointed with the new result.  He felt the innate consciousness of having done it before, and of having done it better.

And now the wonderful masterpiece of his earlier years stood before him—­the tall and massive ebony cross, bearing the marvellous figure of the dead Saviour.  A ray of sunlight fell through the grated window upon the dying head, illuminating the points of the thorns in the crown, the falling locks of hair, the tortured hands, and casting a shadow of death beneath the half-closed eyes.

For several minutes Marzio sat motionless on his stool, realising the whole strength and beauty of what he had done ten years before.  Then he wanted to get a better view of it.  It was not high enough above him, for it was meant to stand upon an altar.  He could not see the face.  He looked about for something upon which to make it stand, but nothing was near.  He pushed away his stool, and turning the cross a little, so that the sunlight should strike it at a better angle, he kneeled down on the floor, his hands resting on the edge of the bench, and he looked up at the image of the dead Christ.

CHAPTER VII

When Don Paolo left the workshop, he immediately crossed over and entered the street door of Marzio’s house, intending to tell Maria Luisa and Lucia the result of the interview.  He had not got to the top of the first flight of stairs when he heard Gianbattista’s step behind him, and turning he saw the young man’s angry face.

“What is the matter, Tista?” asked the priest, stopping on the steps and laying his hand on the iron railing.

“I am discharged, turned out, insulted by that animal!” answered the apprentice hotly.  “He is like a piece of wood!  You might as well talk to a wall!  You had only just closed the door when he pulled out his purse, counted my wages, and told me to take my things from his house in an hour.  I threw the money in his face—­the beast!”