over me,
in which I heard the humming of the bees at the open window, the
singing of the birds, and the voices of people in the hotel gardens,
all united in one continuous murmur that seemed a long way off. I saw
the sunshine and the shadow--I saw the majestic Leo stretched full
length near the easel, and the slight supple form of Raffaello Cellini
standing out in bold outline against the light; yet all seemed shifting
and mingling strangely into a sort of wide radiance in which there was
nothing but varying tints of colour. And could it have been my fancy,
or did I actually SEE the curtain fall gradually away from my favourite
picture, just enough for the face of the "Angel of Life" to be seen
smiling down upon me? I rubbed my eyes violently, and started to my
feet at the sound of the artist's voice.

"I have tried your patience enough for to-day," he said, and his words
sounded muffled, as though they were being spoken through, a thick
wall. "You can leave me now if you like."

I stood before him mechanically, still holding the book he had lent me
clasped in my hand. Irresolutely I raised my eyes towards the "Lords of
our Life and Death." It was closely veiled. I had then experienced an
optical illusion. I forced myself to speak--to smile--to put back the
novel sensations that were overwhelming me.

"I think," I said, and I heard myself speak as though I were somebody
else at a great distance off--"I think, Signor Cellini, your Eastern
wine has been too potent for me. My head is quite heavy, and I feel
dazed."

"It is mere fatigue and the heat of the day," he replied quietly. "I am
sure you are not too DAZED, as you call it, to see your favourite
picture, are you?"

I trembled. Was not that picture veiled? I looked--there was no curtain
at all, and the faces of the two Angels shone out of the canvas with
intense brilliancy! Strange to say, I felt no surprise at this
circumstance, which, had it occurred a moment previously, would have
unquestionably astonished and perhaps alarmed me. The mistiness of my
brain suddenly cleared; I saw everything plainly; I heard distinctly;
and when I spoke, the tone of my voice sounded as full and ringing as
it had previously seemed low and muffled. I gazed steadfastly at the
painting, and replied, half smiling:

"I should be indeed 'far gone,' as the saying is, if I could not see
that, signor! It is truly your masterpiece. Why have you never
exhibited it?"

"Can YOU ask that