CHAPTER II.

The mysterious potion.

The next day, punctually at noon, according to my promise, I entered the studio.  I was alone, for Amy, after some qualms of conscience respecting chaperonage, propriety, and Mrs. Grundy, had yielded to my entreaties and gone for a drive with some friends.  In spite of the fears she began to entertain concerning the Mephistophelian character of Raffaello Cellini, there was one thing of which both she and I felt morally certain:  namely, that no truer or more honourable gentleman than he ever walked on the earth.  Under his protection the loveliest and loneliest woman that ever lived would have been perfectly safe—­as safe as though she were shut up, like the princess in the fairy-tale, in a brazen tower, of which only an undiscoverable serpent possessed the key.  When I arrived, the rooms were deserted, save for the presence of a magnificent Newfoundland dog, who, as I entered, rose, and shaking his shaggy body, sat down before me and offered me his huge paw, wagging his tail in the most friendly manner all the while, I at once responded to his cordial greeting, and as I stroked his noble head, I wondered where the animal had come from; for though—­we had visited Signor Cellini’s studio every day, there had been no sign or mention of this stately, brown-eyed, four-footed companion.  I seated myself, and the dog immediately lay down at my feet, every now and then looking up at me with an affectionate glance and a renewed wagging of his tail.  Glancing round the well-known room, I noticed that the picture I admired so much was veiled by a curtain of Oriental stuff, in which were embroidered threads of gold mingled with silks of various brilliant hues.  On the working easel was a large square canvas, already prepared, as I supposed, for my features to be traced thereon.  It was an exceedingly warm morning, and though the windows as well as the glass doors of the conservatory were wide open, I found the air of the studio very oppressive.  I perceived on the table a finely-wrought decanter of Venetian glass, in which clear water sparkled temptingly.  Rising from my chair, I took an antique silver goblet from the mantelpiece, filled it with the cool fluid, and was about to drink, when the cup was suddenly snatched from my hands, and the voice of Cellini, changed from its usual softness to a tone both imperious and commanding, startled me.

“Do not drink that,” he said; “you must not!  You dare not!  I forbid you!”

I looked up at him in mute astonishment.  His face was very pale, and his large dark eyes shone with suppressed excitement.  Slowly my self-possession returned to me, and I said calmly: 

“You forbid me, signor?  Surely you forget yourself.  What harm have I done in helping myself to a simple glass of water in your studio?  You are not usually so inhospitable.”

While I spoke his manner changed, the colour returned to his face, and his eyes softened—­he smiled.