“Perhaps it would be better to do that than to serve the mass you sing over your work-bench every day,” said Gianbattista.  “You are going too far, Sor Marzio.  One may trifle with women and their feelings.  You had better not attempt it with men.”

“Such as you and Paolo?  There was once a mule in the Pescheria Vecchia; when he got half-way through he did not like the smell of the fish, and he said to his leader, ‘I will turn back.’  The driver pulled him along.  Then said the mule, ’Do not trifle with me.  I will turn round and kick you.’  But there is not room for a mule to turn round in the Pescheria Vecchia.  The mule found it out, and followed the man through the fish market after all.  I hope that is clear?  It means that you are a fool.”

“What is the use of bandying words?” cried the apprentice angrily.  “I will offer you a bargain, Sor Marzio.  I will give you your choice.  Either I will leave the house, and in that case I will carry off Lucia and marry her in spite of you.  Or else I will stay here—­but if Lucia marries any one else, I will cut your throat.  Is that a fair bargain?”

“Perfectly fair, though I cannot see wherein the bargain consists,” answered Marzio, with a rough laugh.  “I prefer that you should stay here.  I will run the risk of being murdered by you, any day, and you may ran the risk of being sent to the galleys for life, if you choose.  You will be well cared for there, and you can try your chisel on paving-stones for a change from silver chalices.”

“Never mind what becomes of me afterwards, in that case,” said the young man.  “If Lucia is married to some one else, I do not care what happens.  So you have got your warning!”

“Thank you.  If you had remained what you used to be, you might have married her without further difficulty.  But to have you and Lucia and Maria Luisa and Paolo all conspiring against me from morning till night is more than I can bear.  Good-night, and the devil be with you, you fool!”

“Et cum spiritu tuo,” answered Gianbattista as he left the room.

When Marzio was alone he returned to the head he was drawing—­a head of wonderful beauty, inclined downwards and towards one side, bearing a crown of thorns, the eyelids drooped and shaded in death.  He glanced at it with a bitter smile and threw aside the pencil without making another stroke upon the paper.

He leaned back, lighted another pipe, and began to reflect upon the events of the evening.  He was glad it was over, for a strange weakness in his violent nature made it hard for him to face such scenes unless he were thoroughly roused.  Now, however, he was satisfied.  For a long time he had seen with growing distrust the change in Gianbattista’s manner, and in the last words he had spoken to the apprentice he had uttered what was really in his heart.  He was afraid of being altogether overwhelmed by the majority against him in his own house.  He hated