“It is just what you had the other day,” she said, as the glass rapidly cooled.

Zorzi was seated high enough to look over the table.

“Another failure,” he said.  “It is always the same.  We have scarcely had any variation in the tint in the last week.”

“That is not your fault,” answered Marietta.  “We will try the next.”

As if she had been at the work all her life, she chilled the ladle and chipped off the small adhering bits of glass from it, and slipped the last test from the table, carrying it to the refuse jar with tongs.  Once more she wrapped the damp cloth round her hand and went to the furnace.  The middle crucible was to be tried next.  Nella, looking on with nervous anxiety, was in a profuse perspiration.

“I believe that is the one into which the ladle fell,” said Zorzi.  “Yes, I am quite sure of it.”

Marietta took the specimen and poured it out, set down the ladle on the brick work, and watched the cooling glass, expecting to see what she had often seen before.  But her face changed, in a look of wonder and delight.

“Zorzi!” she exclaimed.  “Look!  Look!  See what a colour!”

“I cannot see well,” he answered, straining his neck.  “Wait a minute!” he cried, as Marietta took the tongs.  “I see now!  We have got it!  I believe we have got it!  Oh, if I could only walk!”

“Patience—­you shall see it.  It is almost cool.  It is quite stiff now.”

She took the little flat cake up with the tongs, very carefully, and held it before his eyes.  The light fell through it from the window, and her head was close to his, as they both looked at it together.

“I never dreamed of such a colour,” said Zorzi, his face flushing with excitement.

“There never was such a colour before,” answered Marietta.  “It is like the juice of a ripe pomegranate that has just been cut, only there is more light in it.”

“It is like a great ruby—­the rubies that the jewellers call ’pigeon’s blood.’”

“My father always said it should be blood-red,” said Marietta.  “But I thought he meant something different, something more scarlet.”

“I thought so, too.  What they call pigeon’s blood is not the colour of blood at all.  It is more like pomegranates, as you said at first.  But this is a marvellous thing.  The master will be pleased.”

Nella came and looked too, convinced that the glass had in some way turned out more beautiful by the magic of her mistress’s touch.

“It is a miracle!” cried the woman of the people.  “Some saint must have made this.”

The glass glowed like a gem and seemed to give out light of its own.  As Zorzi and Marietta looked, its rich glow spread over their faces.  It was that rare glass which, from old cathedral windows, casts such a deep stain upon the pavement that one would believe the marble itself must be dyed with unchanging color.

“We have found it together,” said Marietta.