ran towards it. First he seized the quilt and tore it into strips,
then the blankets, then the sheets.

'Whoever saw a grander rope?' he chuckled to himself as he knotted the
ends together.

Quick as thought he tied it to the iron bar that ran across his window,
and, squeezing out, he began to climb down, hand over hand, dangling
and swinging to and fro. The rope was stout and good, and now he could
steady himself by catching his toes in the great iron rings fastened
into the wall, until at last he dropped breathless into the street
below.

Next day, when Cosimo came to see how the painting went on, he saw
indeed the pictures and the brushes, but no painter was there. Quickly
he stepped to the open window, and there he saw the dangling rope of
sheets, and guessed at once how the bird had flown.

Through the streets they searched for the missing painter, and before
long he was found and brought back. Filippo tried to look penitent, but
his eyes were dancing with merriment, and Cosimo must needs laugh too.

'After all,' said Filippo, 'my talent is not like a beast of burden, to
be driven and beaten into doing its work. It is rather like one of
those heavenly visitors whom we willingly entertain when they deign to
visit us, but whom we can never force either to come or go at will.'

'Thou art right, friend painter,' answered the great man. 'And when I
think how thou and thy talent might have taken wings together, had not
the rope held good, I vow I will never seek to keep thee in against thy
will again.'

'Then will I work all the more willingly,' answered Filippo.

So with doors open, and freedom to come and go, Filippo no longer
wished to escape, but worked with all his heart. The beautiful Madonna
and angel were soon finished, and besides he painted a wonderful
picture of seven saints with St. John sitting in their midst.

From far and near came requests that Fra Filippo Lippi should paint
pictures for different churches and convents. He would much rather have
painted the scenes and the people he saw every day, but he remembered
the prior's lecture, and still painted only the stories of saints and
holy people--the gentle Madonna with her scarlet book of prayers, the
dove fluttering near, and the angel messenger with shining wings
bearing the lily branch. True, the saints would sometimes look out of
his pictures with the faces of some of his friends, but no one seemed
to notice that. On the whole his was a hap