o prayer, which had once only filled him with restless
impatience.

But at last the galley reached the coast of Barbary, and the slaves
were unchained from the oars and taken ashore. In all his misery
Filippo's keen eyes still watched with interest the people around him,
and he was never tired of studying the swarthy faces and curious
garments of the Moorish pirates.

Then one day when he happened to be near a smooth white wall, he took a
charred stick from a fire which was built close by, and began to draw
the figure of his master.

What a delight it was to draw those rapid strokes and feel the likeness
grow beneath his fingers! He was so much interested that he did not
notice the crowd that gathered gradually round him, but he worked
steadily on until the figure was finished.

Just as the band of monks had stood silent round his first picture in
the cloister of the Carmine, so these dark Moors stood still in wonder
and amazement gazing upon the bold black figure sketched upon the
smooth white wall.

No one had ever seen such a thing in that land before, and it seemed to
them that this man must be a dealer in magic. They whispered together,
and one went off hurriedly to fetch the captain.

The master, when he came, was as astonished as the men. He could
scarcely believe his eyes when he saw a second self drawn upon the
wall, more like than his own shadow. This indeed must be no common man;
and he ordered that Filippo's chains should be immediately struck off,
and that he should be treated with respect and honour.

Nothing now was too good for this man of magic, and before long Filippo
was put on board a ship and carried safely back to Italy. They put him
ashore at Naples, and for some little time Filippo stayed there
painting pictures for the king; but his heart was in his own beloved
town, and very soon he returned to Florence.

Perhaps he did not deserve a welcome, but every one was only too
delighted to think that the runaway had really returned. Even the
prior, though he shook his head, was glad to welcome back the brother
whose painting had already brought fame and honour to the convent.

But in spite of all the troubles Filippo had gone through, he still
dearly loved the merry world and all its pleasures. For a long time he
would paint his saints and angels with all due diligence, and then he
would dash down brushes and pencils, leave his paints scattered around,
and of he would go for a holiday. Then