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?” he said with impressive emphasis, at the same time drawing nearer and fixing upon me the penetrating glance of his dark fathomless eyes. It then seemed to me that some great inner force compelled me to answer this half-inquiry, in words of which I had taken no previous thought, and which, as I uttered them, conveyed no special meaning to my own ears.

“Of course,” I said slowly, as if I were repeating a lesson, “you would not so betray the high trust committed to your charge.”

“Well said!” replied Cellini; “you are fatigued, mademoiselle. Au revoir! Till to-morrow!” And, throwing open the door of his studio, he stood aside for me to pass out. I looked at him inquiringly.

“Must I come at the same time to-morrow?” I asked.

“If you please.”

I passed my hand across my forehead perplexedly, I felt I had something else to say before I left him. He waited patiently, holding back with one hand the curtains of the portiere.

“I think I had a parting word to give you,” I said at last, meeting his gaze frankly; “but I seem to have forgotten what it was.” Cellini smiled gravely.

“Do not trouble to think about it, mademoiselle. I am unworthy the effort on your part.”

A flash of vivid light crossed my eyes for a second, and I exclaimed eagerly:

“I remember now! It was 'Dieu vous garde' signor!”

He bent his head reverentially.

“Merci mille fois, mademoiselle! Dieu vous garde—vous aussi. Au revoir.”

And clasping my hand with a light yet friendly pressure, he closed the door of his room behind me. Once alone in the passage, the sense of high elation and contentment that had just possessed me began gradually to decrease. I had not become actually dispirited, but a languid feeling of weariness oppressed me, and my limbs ached as though I had walked incessantly for many miles. I went straight to my own room. I consulted my watch; it was half-past one, the hour at which the hotel luncheon was usually served. Mrs. Everard had evidently not returned from her drive. I did not care to attend the table d'hote alone; besides, I had no inclination to eat. I drew down the window-blinds to shut out the brilliancy of the beautiful Southern sunlight, and throwing myself on my bed I determined to rest quietly till Amy came back. I had brought the “Letters of a Dead Musician” away with me from Cellini's studio, and I began to read, intending to keep myself awake by this means. But I found I could not fix my attention on the page, nor could I think at all connectedly. Little by little my eyelids closed; the book dropped from my nerveless hand; and in a few minutes I was in a deep and tranquil slumber.


CHAPTER III.: THREE VISIONS.

Roses, roses! An interminable chain of these royal blossoms, red and white, wreathed by the radiant fingers of small rainbow-winged creatures as airy as moonlight mist, as delicate as thistledown! They cluster round me with smiling faces and eager eyes; they place the end of their rose-garland in my hand, and whisper, “FOLLOW!” Gladly I obey, and hasten onward. Guiding myself by the fragrant chain I hold, I pass through a labyrinth of trees, whose luxuriant branches quiver with the flight and song of birds. Then comes a sound of waters; the riotous rushing of a torrent unchecked, that leaps sheer down from rocks a thousand feet high, thundering forth the praise of its own beauty as it tosses in the air triumphant crowns of silver spray. How the living diamonds within it shift, and change, and sparkle! Fain would I linger to watch this magnificence; but the coil of roses still unwinds before me, and the fairy voices still cry, “FOLLOW!” I press on. The trees grow thicker; the songs of the birds cease; the light around me grows pale and subdued.