ders, the huge arms, all the
compressed strength of the body, made the effect of some strong
animal fettered and compelled to tameness.

"Rufin?" he said hesitatingly.

The painter nodded. "Yes, it is Rufin."

The girl glided past him toward the seated man. "And I, Pietro," she
said.

He made a gesture with his hand as though to move her aside, for she
stood between him and Rufin.

"Ah," she cried, "do you not need me at all--even now?"

"Oh, what is it?" said the condemned man, with a quick irritation.
"Is this a time! There is not a moment to spare. I must speak to
Rufin--I must. Yes, kneel down; that's right!"

She had sunk at his knee and laid her brown head upon it. As though
to acknowledge the caress of a dog, he let one hand fall on her bowed
shoulders. His eyes traveled across her to Rufin.

"They told me you would come. Say--is it because of my picture?"

"Yes," said Rufin. "I have done all that I could to save you because
of that. But----"

"I know," said the other. "They have told me. You like it, then--my
poor 'Mona Lisa' of Montmartre?"

Rufin stepped closer. It was not easy to utter all he desired to say
under the eyes of those uniformed men, with the sad, attentive priest
in the background.

"Monsieur," he said, "your picture is in my studio. Nothing shall
ever hang in its place, for nothing will be worthy."

The seated man heard him hungrily. For the moment he seemed to have
forgotten where he was and what was to happen to him ere he drew many
more breaths.

"I knew," he said, "I knew. I can paint. So can you, Monsieur--
sometimes. We two---we know!"

He frowned heavily as realization returned to him. "And now I never
shall," he said. "I never shall! Ah, it is horrible! A man is two
people, and both die like a single soul. You know, for you are an
artist."

"I--I have done my best," said Rufin despairingly. "If I could go
instead and leave you to paint--oh, believe me, I would go now
gladly, proudly, for I should have given the world pictures--great
pictures."

A spasm of emotion filled his eyes with tears, and some one touched
his arm and drew him aside. He strove with himself fiercely and
looked up again to see that three men had entered the room and were
going toward the prisoner. The priest had come forward and was
raising the kneeling girl.

"A moment," cried the prisoner, as the three laid hands upon him.
"Just a moment." They took no notice. "Monsieur Rufin," he cried, "i