look at the work we give them--the creation of our minds, the labour
of our hands--"

"They give us their money in return," observed Gianbattista. "The
ancients, whom you are so fond of talking about, used to get their work
done by slaves chained to the bench--"

"Yes! And it has taken us two thousand years to get to the point we have
reached! Two thousand years--and what is it? Are we any better than
slaves, except that we work better?"

"I doubt whether we work better."

"What is the matter with you this morning?" cried Marzio. "Have you been
sneaking into some church on your way here? Pah! You smell of the
sacristy! Has Paolo been here? Oh, to think that a brother of mine
should be a priest! It is not to be believed!"

"It is the irony of fate. Moreover, he gets you plenty of orders."

"Yes, and no doubt he takes his percentage on the price. He had a new
cloak last month, and he asked me to make him a pair of silver buckles
for his shoes. Pretty, that--an artist's brother with silver buckles! I
told him to go to the devil, his father, for his ornaments. Why does he
not steal an old pair from the cardinal, his bondmaster? Not good
enough, I suppose--beast!"

Marzio laid aside his hammer and chisel, and lit the earthen pipe with
the rough wooden stem that lay beside him. Then he examined the
beautiful head of the angel he had been making upon the body of the
ewer. He touched it lovingly, loosed the cord, and lifted the piece from
the pad, turning it towards the light and searching critically for any
defect in the modelling of the little face. He replaced it on the table,
and selecting a very fine-pointed punch, laid down his pipe for a moment
and set about putting the tiny pupils into the eyes. Two touches were
enough. He began smoking again, and contemplated what he had done. It
was the body of a large silver ewer of which Gianbattista was
ornamenting the neck and mouth, which were of a separate piece. Amongst
the intricate arabesques little angels'-heads were embossed, and on one
side a group of cherubs was bearing a "monstrance" with the sacred Host
through silver clouds. A hackneyed subject on church vessels, but which
had taken wonderful beauty under the skilled fingers of the artist, who
sat cursing the priest who was to use it, while expending his best
talents on its perfections.

"It is not bad," he said rather doubtfully. "Come and look at it,
Tista," he added. The young man left his place and came a