he Count; "none but
yourself would seek me here, or find me, if they sought."

As Donatello did not take advantage of this opening which his friend had
kindly afforded him to pour out his hidden troubles, the latter again
threw aside the subject, and returned to the enjoyment of the scene
before him. The thunder-storm, which he had beheld striding across the
valley, had passed to the left of Monte Beni, and was continuing its
march towards the hills that formed the boundary on the eastward.
Above the whole valley, indeed, the sky was heavy with tumbling vapors,
interspersed with which were tracts of blue, vividly brightened by the
sun; but, in the east, where the tempest was yet trailing its ragged
skirts, lay a dusky region of cloud and sullen mist, in which some of
the hills appeared of a dark purple hue. Others became so indistinct,
that the spectator could not tell rocky height from impalpable cloud.
Far into this misty cloud region, however,--within the domain of chaos,
as it were,--hilltops were seen brightening in the sunshine; they looked
like fragments of the world, broken adrift and based on nothingness,
or like portions of a sphere destined to exist, but not yet finally
compacted.

The sculptor, habitually drawing many of the images and illustrations
of his thoughts from the plastic art, fancied that the scene represented
the process of the Creator, when he held the new, imperfect earth in his
hand, and modelled it.

"What a magic is in mist and vapor among the mountains!" he exclaimed.
"With their help, one single scene becomes a thousand. The cloud scenery
gives such variety to a hilly landscape that it would be worth while to
journalize its aspect from hour to hour. A cloud, however,--as I have
myself experienced,--is apt to grow solid and as heavy as a stone the
instant that you take in hand to describe it, But, in my own heart,
I have found great use in clouds. Such silvery ones as those to the
northward, for example, have often suggested sculpturesque groups,
figures, and attitudes; they are especially rich in attitudes of living
repose, which a sculptor only hits upon by the rarest good fortune. When
I go back to my dear native land, the clouds along the horizon will be
my only gallery of art!"

"I can see cloud shapes, too," said Donatello; "yonder is one that
shifts strangely; it has been like people whom I knew. And now, if I
watch it a little longer, it will take the figure of a monk reclining,