It came rapidly nearer, and the stranger's first impulse was to hide himself from these unexpected and unwelcome intruders; but there was no time; as he rose he was observed, but the genial hand-wave and the merry laughter reassured him. These were simple pleasure-seekers. He reseated himself, and the boat came on.

The rower was a dark-haired man of middle age, clothed in a plain brown robe. Lean and vivacious, eager-eyed, he appeared one of those people who are always talking and moving; even seated and rowing he gave the impression of restlessness; of the good humour common to the people too. His companion was a young girl dressed in a simple blue gown. She was a delicate blonde, very young, very slender; the curls of her amber hair were blown across a round dimpled face; eyes of a dancing blue; a sweet small mouth curled in laughter, a fine chin and throat, a slack young figure. This was her principal characteristic, the floating yellow hair like a veil about her.

Coming abreast of Francisco, the man paused on his oars with a friendly greeting.

'Good day, messer,' he called. 'So thou hast found our secret haunt. Graziosa and I had thought this place our own,' and as he spoke he waved his hand around him at the water.

The boat rocked now alongside the path, and Francisco courteously approached.

'I am a stranger here,' he said.

The other glanced at him anew, and with the awakening of a little friendly wonder.

'A stranger? Ah, then, this is new to thee—this most beautiful part of Italy. I assure thee,' he continued excitedly, 'I have been through the fairest parts of Tuscany, I have wandered about Naples, but never have I seen such colours, such lights as here!' Again he waved his all-inclusive hand. 'Thou, messer, as a stranger, must see how wonderfully fair it is?'

He paddled the boat nearer among the reeds in his eagerness to obtain new sympathy.

I have not been used to judge lands by their beauty,' returned Francisco. 'Yet methinks I have seen spots as beautiful and easier to hold in time of need.'

The other twisted his mouth in contempt. The girl leaned forward, laughing. 'You forget, father,' she said, 'everyone is not a painter.'

But the little man, as if he had found a sudden mission, secured the boat, and, still in silence, stepped ashore, helping his daughter to follow him. Francisco, preoccupied and mistrustful, saw this with uneasiness, and would gladly have withdrawn. Moreover, the smiling face of the happy girl was an added sting to a burning thought.

The enthusiast, however, had no idea of giving up a possible convert, and swept aside the other's protestations while he commenced pointing out the beauties of the yellow lichen against the villa wall, the sight of which had restored all his good humour. 'See!' he exclaimed. 'How bright it is! See the contrast of the yew—so brilliant, yet so in harmony, so—you do not, paint?'

'No,' said Francisco between grimness and scorn. 'Do I look as if I did?'

The artist glanced anew at his huge frame and tattered attire, and mentally decided he did not.

'Ah, then, thou dost not understand,' he said; 'but I, I am a painter. Agnolo Vistarnini is my name, messer, a student of Taddeo Gaddi.' He swept off his leather cap with an air of profound respect.

'Ah, he could paint! I am' far behind him, messer, but I can see I can see! Which thou canst not,' he added with superb pity.

'Graziosa,' he called, turning to his daughter, 'we will stay here awhile.'

And seating himself on the bank, he produced from his wallet a panel of wood, polished and carefully planed, upon which he began to draw the outline of a corner of the scene, using a dark brown pigment.

Francisco fell again to brooding while the painter chattered on, dividing his attention between the panel and his daughter, who was wandering up the stream, filling with flowers a flat basket.

'Thou see'st yonder my daughter, messer,' he said, pointing to the slender figure in blue. He blew a kiss in her direction. 'She is the model for my angels—'

'And the model for thy devils?' asked Francisco suddenly. Vistarnini started and looked around at the speaker.

'Devils! Messer!' He crossed himself. 'God forbid there should be a model for such found anywhere,' he said.

'Yet methinks thou hast in thy city yonder,' said Francisco with a bitter smile, 'one who well might sit for the fiend himself: Visconti.'

'The Duke? Ah, my friend, hush, hush, thou art a stranger, take care! Even in this lonely spot such words are far from safe. Who art thou, messer, who dost not live in Milan and yet speakest with such a look of the Visconti?'

'Do not all who know the Visconti speak with such a look of him?'

The painter gazed at him in silence.

Tut thou askest for my name,' continued the other. 'I am Francisco di Coldra, one who has suffered much from the Visconti'

'In the sack of Verona, perhaps?' asked Agnolo after a pause. 'The sack of Verona was some time ago. The prisoners have been in Milan twenty days!'

These words were inscrutable, and the little painter did not even try to understand them; but they kindled a memory that would not be repressed.

'Ah, and what a night that was,' he cried, 'when the Duke re-entered Milan with them! Since I do not hurt thee by the recollection, messer, let me tell thee, it was a splendid sight, that night the Duke returned. I live a quiet life, as an artist may do, even in Milan. I know little, I care little for the wars of princes.