"But not with me."

The two men stood staring at each other.

There was a sound of steps in the hall and the door swung open. It was a group of Venetian boatmen, bearing in their midst a wet, sagging form.

The red-gold hair trailed heavily. They moved stolidly across the room and laid their burden on the low bench. The oldest of them straightened his back and looked apologetically at the wet marks on the shining floor.

"He said to bring her here, Signor." He motioned clumsily toward the wet figure. "He said so."

"Who said it?" said t.i.tian harshly.

"Signor--The Signor--Giorgione.... We took her there. He would not let us in. He stood at the window. He was laughing. He said to bring her here," ended the old man stolidly. "She is long dead." He bent to pick up the heavy litter. The group shuffled from the room.

Slowly the young man crossed to the bench. He knelt by the motionless figure and, drawing the glove from his hand, laid it on the breast that shone in the wet folds.

"I swear, before G.o.d--" he said ... "before G.o.d!" He swayed heavily and fell forward.

The artist sprang to his side. As he touched him, his eye fell on the ungloved hand.... Shuddering, he reached over and lifted the glove from the wet breast. He drew it over the hand, covering it from sight.

VI

"You must go!" said t.i.tian sternly.

The young man looked at him dully, almost appealingly. He shook his head. "I have work to do."

t.i.tian lifted an impatient hand. "The people will not permit it--I tell you!" He spoke harshly. "Giorgione is their idol. It has been hard to keep them--this one week! Only my promise that you go at once holds them."

The young man smiled, a little cynically. "Do you think I fear death--I crave it!" His arms fell at his sides.

His companion looked at him intently. "What is your plan?" he asked shortly.

"Giorgione--" The voice was tense. "He shall pay--to the uttermost!"

"For that?" t.i.tian made a motion toward the gloved hand.

The young man raised it with a scornful gesture.

"For that"--he spoke sternly--"I would not touch the dog. It is for her!" His voice dropped.

t.i.tian waited a moment. "What would you do?" he asked in a low voice.

The young man stirred. "I care not. He must suffer--as she suffered," he added with slow significance.

"Would that content you? Would you go away--and not return?"

"I would go--yes."

t.i.tian waited, his eyes on the gloved hand. "You can go," he said at last, "the Lord has avenged her."

The young man leaned forward. His breath came sharply. "What do you mean?"

"That she is avenged," said t.i.tian slowly. "Giorgione cannot live the year. Go away. Leave him to die in peace."

"I did not ask for peace," said the young man grimly.

t.i.tian turned on him fiercely. "His heart breaks. He dies drop by drop!"

The young man smiled.

t.i.tian watched him closely. "You need not fear his not suffering," he said significantly. "Go watch through his window, or by a crack in the door."--He waited a breath. "The man is mad!"

The young man started sharply.

"Mad!" repeated t.i.tian.

Zarato turned on him a look of horror and exultation. "Mad!" he repeated softly. The gloved hand trembled.

A look of relief stole into t.i.tian's face. "Does that satisfy you?" he asked quietly. "Will you go?"

"Yes, I will go." The young man rose. He moved toward the door. "Mad!"

he whispered softly.

"Wait," said t.i.tian. He sprang before him. "Not by daylight--you would be murdered in the open street! You must wait till night.... I shall row you, myself, out from the city. It is arranged. A boat waits for you."

The young man looked at him gratefully. "You take this risk for me?" he said humbly.

"For you and Giorgione and for--her."

They sat silent.

"He will never paint again," said the young man, looking up quickly with the thought.

t.i.tian shook his head. "Never again," he said slowly.

The young man looked at him. "There are a dozen pictures begun," he said, "a dozen and more."

"Yes."

"Who will finish them?"

"Who can tell?" The painter's face had clouded.

"Shall you?"

t.i.tian returned the suspicious gaze frankly. "It is not likely," he said. "He will not speak to me or see me. He says I am false to him--I harbor you."