bterranean excursions made her unwell. There were no robbers or wild
beasts to molest her in the arena during the others' absence, and,
besides, the entrances were all guarded.

She sat down at the foot of the cross, but not to draw, for her mind was
not now on her sketch. Plucking the dandelions that grew in profusion
about her, she fashioned them into a chain and hung it around her neck.
The thought came to her, as she was thus engaged, that of all the
Christian martyrs torn to pieces by wild beasts in that arena, not one
of them, when the tigers and hyenas leaped upon their prey, felt such a
terror as hers at sight of the monsters that seemed to be closing in
about her to rend her limb from limb.

How happy the artist must be up there in the lofty gallery! For there he
was, still at work on his picture. The artist is the only really happy
man. He need fear no exile; every land is his home. No foreign tongue
can confuse him; his thoughts find a medium of expression intelligible
to all. Wars have no terror for him; he paints them, but takes no part
in them. Storms and tempests, by land or sea, speak to him not of
danger, but are merely the symbols of nature's ever-varying moods.
Popular insurrections furnish his canvas with picturesque groupings of
animated humanity. Though all Rome surge with uproar about him, he sits
under his sun-umbrella and paints. The artist is a cold-blooded man. He
paints a madonna, but his piety is none the greater for it. He draws a
Venus, but his heart is still whole. He pictures God and Satan, but
prostrates himself before neither. How independent, too, he must feel as
he wanders through the world! He asks no help in the production of his
creations. The priest need not pray for rain or sunshine on his account.
He seeks no office or title from prince or potentate. He desires no
favour, no privilege, nor does he even require the advantage of a
recognised religious belief. With his genius he can conquer the world.

Art it is, moreover, that makes woman the equal of man. The woman artist
is something more than man's other half; she is complete in herself. She
does not ask the world for a living, she does not beg any man to give
her his name, she kneels before no marriage-altar for the priest's
blessing; she goes forth and wins for herself all that she desires.

An irresistible impulse drove Blanka to ascend to the painter's lofty
perch in order to see how he was succeeding in the task which s