was evident that
a Jael like this would be sure to search Sisera's pockets as soon as the
breath was out of his body.

In another sketch she had attempted the story of Judith, which we see
represented by the old masters so often, and in such various styles.
Here, too, beginning with a passionate and fiery conception of the
subject in all earnestness, she had given the last touches in utter
scorn, as it were, of the feelings which at first took such powerful
possession of her hand. The head of Holofernes (which, by the bye, had a
pair of twisted mustaches, like those of a certain potentate of the
day) being fairly cut off, was screwing its eyes upward and twirling
its features into a diabolical grin of triumphant malice, which it flung
right in Judith's face. On her part, she had the startled aspect that
might be conceived of a cook if a calf's head should sneer at her when
about to be popped into the dinner-pot.

Over and over again, there was the idea of woman, acting the part of a
revengeful mischief towards man. It was, indeed, very singular to
see how the artist's imagination seemed to run on these stories of
bloodshed, in which woman's hand was crimsoned by the stain; and how,
too,--in one form or another, grotesque or sternly sad,--she failed not
to bring out the moral, that woman must strike through her own heart to
reach a human life, whatever were the motive that impelled her.

One of the sketches represented the daughter of Herodias receiving the
head of John the Baptist in a charger. The general conception appeared
to be taken from Bernardo Luini's picture, in the Uffizzi Gallery at
Florence; but Miriam had imparted to the saint's face a look of gentle
and heavenly reproach, with sad and blessed eyes fixed upward at the
maiden; by the force of which miraculous glance, her whole womanhood was
at once awakened to love and endless remorse.

These sketches had a most disagreeable effect on Donatello's peculiar
temperament. He gave a shudder; his face assumed a look of trouble,
fear, and disgust; he snatched up one sketch after another, as if about
to tear it in pieces. Finally, shoving away the pile of drawings, he
shrank back from the table and clasped his hands over his eyes.

"What is the matter, Donatello?" asked Miriam, looking up from a
letter which she was now writing. "Ah! I did not mean you to see those
drawings. They are ugly phantoms that stole out of my mind; not things
that I created, but thing