the work would come to a
stand-still, and people must just wait until Filippo should feel
inclined to begin again.

The great Cosimo de Medici, who was always the friend of painters,
desired above all things that Fra Filippo should paint a picture for
him. And what is more, having heard so many tales about the idle ways
of this same brother, he was determined that the picture should be
painted without any interruptions.

'Fra Filippo shall take no holidays while at work for me,' he said, as
he talked the matter over with the prior.

'That may not be so easy as thou thinkest,' said the prior, for he knew
Filippo better than did this great Cosimo.

But Cosimo did not see any difficulty in the matter whatever. High in
his palace he prepared a room for the painter, and placed there
everything he could need. No comfort was lacking, and when Filippo came
he was treated as an honoured guest, except for one thing. Whenever the
heavy door of his room swung to, there was a grating sound heard, and
the key in the lock was turned from outside. So Filippo was really a
captive in his handsome prison.

That was all very well for a few days. Filippo laughed as he painted
away, and laid on the tender blue of the Virgin's robe, and painted
into her eyes the solemn look which he had so often seen on the face of
some poor peasant woman as she knelt at prayer. But after a while he
grew restless and weary of his work.

'Plague take this great man and his fine manners,' he cried. 'Does he
think he can catch a lark and train it to sing in a cage at his
bidding? I am weary of saints and angels. I must out to breathe the
fresh sweet air of heaven.'

But the key was always turned in the lock and the door was strong.
There was the window, but it was high above the street, and the grey
walls, built of huge square stones, might well have been intended to
enclose a prison rather than a palace.

It was a dark night, and the air felt hot as Filippo leaned out of the
window. Scarce a breath stirred the still air, and every sound could be
heard distinctly. Far below in the street he could hear the tread of
the people's feet, and catch the words of a merry song as a company of
boys and girls danced merrily along.

'Flower of the rose,
If I've been happy, what matter who knows,'

they sang.

It was all too tempting; out he must get. Filippo looked round his
room, and his eye rested on the bed. With a shout of triumphant delight
he