m-like, gnaws the Maestro's heart
When he sees another snatch the prize
Out from under his very eyes,
For which he would barter his soul? You see
I taught him his art from first to last:
Whatever he was he owed to me.
And then to be browbeat, overpassed,
Stealthily jeered behind the hand!
Why that was more than a saint could stand;
And I was no saint. And if my soul,
With a pride like Lucifer's, mocked control,
And goaded me on to madness, till
I lost all measure of good or ill,
Whose gift was it, pray? Oh, many a day
I've cursed it, yet whose is the blame, I say?

_His name_? How strange that you question so,
When I'm sure I have told it o'er and o'er,
And why should you care to hear it more?

III.

Well, as I was saying, Domenico
Was wont of my skill to make such light,
That, seeing him go on a certain night
Out with his lute, I followed. Hot
From a war of words, I heeded not
Whither I went, till I heard him twang
A madrigal under the lattice where
Only the night before I sang.
--A double robbery! and I swear
'Twas overmuch for the flesh to bear.

_Don't ask me_. I knew not what I did,
But I hastened home with my rapier hid
Under my cloak, and the blade was wet.
Just open that cabinet there and see
The strange red rustiness on it yet.

A calm that was dead as dead could be
Numbed me: I seized my chalks to trace--
What think you?--_Judas Iscariot's face_!
I just had finished the scowl, no more,
When the shuffle of feet drew near my door
(We lived together, you know I said):
Then wide they flung it, and on the floor
Laid down Domenico--dead!

Back swam my senses: a sickening pain
Tingled like lightning through my brain,
And ere the spasm of fear was broke,
The men who had borne him homeward spoke
Soothingly: "Some assassin's knife
Had taken the innocent artist's life--
Wherefore, 'twere hard to say: all men
Were prone to have troubles now and then
The world knew naught of. Toward his friend
Florence stood waiting to extend
Tenderest dole." Then came my tears,
And I've