on her knees, she was sitting on a bench, and behind her,
standing out against the dark green of a cypress, a marble satyr, with
face distorted in a malicious smile, was applying his pointed lips to
his reed-pipes. Valeria was visibly delighted at her husband's
appearance, and in reply to his anxious queries she said that she had a
slight headache, but that it was of no consequence, and that she was
ready for the sitting. Fabio conducted her to his studio, posed her, and
took up his brush; but, to his great vexation, he could not possibly
finish the face as he would have liked. And that not because it was
somewhat pale and seemed fatigued ... no; but he did not find in it
that day the pure, holy expression which he so greatly loved in it, and
which had suggested to him the idea of representing Valeria in the form
of Saint Cecilia. At last he flung aside his brush, told his wife that
he was not in the mood, that ft would do her good to lie down for a
while, as she was not feeling quite well, to judge by her looks,--and
turned his easel so that the portrait faced the wall. Valeria agreed
with him that she ought to rest, and repeating her complaint of
headache, she retired to her chamber.

Fabio remained in the studio. He felt a strange agitation which was
incomprehensible even to himself. Muzio's sojourn under his roof, a
sojourn which he, Fabio, had himself invited, embarrassed him. And it
was not that he was jealous ... was it possible to be jealous of
Valeria?--but in his friend he did not recognise his former comrade. All
that foreign, strange, new element which Muzio had brought with him from
those distant lands--and which, apparently, had entered into his very
flesh and blood,---all those magical processes, songs, strange
beverages, that dumb Malay, even the spicy odour which emanated from
Muzio's garments, from his hair, his breath,--all this inspired in Fabio
a feeling akin to distrust, nay, even to timidity. And why did that
Malay, when serving at table, gaze upon him, Fabio, with such
disagreeable intentness? Really, one might suppose that he understood
Italian. Muzio had said concerning him, that that Malay, in paying the
penalty with his tongue, had made a great sacrifice, and in compensation
now possessed great power.--What power? And how could he have acquired
it at the cost of his tongue? All this was very strange! Very
incomprehensible!

Fabio went to his wife in her chamber; she was lying on the bed full