'Thou does not inspire me as St Michael, Ambrogio.'

'As what then?' asked his daughter, smiling at her father's earnestness.

Agnolo laughed.

'As no saint at all,' he said. 'He is like nothing but the wicked young man reclaimed in the legend of St Francis, and not very reclaimed either!'

Graziosa smiled still more, but Ambrogio faintly flushed and bit his lip.

'Thou art welcome to paint me in that character another time,' he said. 'Meanwhile, I will work on my St Catherine's robe.'

And he seated himself on a low stool before the easel, Graziosa placing herself on the floor at his feet.

Agnolo scrutinized the St Michael once more, but finally drew the curtain again along the rod, for his day's work was over. Settling himself in the window-seat, for a while he contentedly watched the other two; but not for long could the little painter keep his tongue still, and Ambrogio's visits were a fine opportunity for voluble talk, for the young man lived in Como, and was he not now shut up in the convent of St Joseph, five miles away, painting an altar-piece for avaricious monks who grudged him even these occasional visits into Milan? What could he know of the city's news?

'We had a fine procession this morning, Ambrogio,' he said. 'The Duke of Orleans' retinue went by, a gay sight. We hoped to see the Duke ride out to meet him, but my lord Gian Visconti keeps himself close. For all we live so near the gate, I have never seen him, or only in his helmet; and yet 'tis said he cares a good deal for sculpture and for painting, and will make a fine thing of this grand new church he's building. I would love to see what a tyrant and a painter both may look like.'

Ambrogio, bending over his painting, returned no answer; but that made small difference to the talkative little man, who continued.

'He came not, however, so we contented ourselves with the French prince, who is to marry the Lady Valentine. Graziosa did not care for him; I thought him well-looking enough.'

'His air was not a gay one, and he seems foolish,' said Graziosa; 'and since he is not marrying for love, I am sorry for the Lady Valentine.'

'Thou art always sorrowing for someone,' said her father. 'A princess never marries for love.'

'Then I am glad I am no princess,' smiled Graziosa, looking up at her betrothed.

Ambrogio raised her hand to his lips and kissed it in silence. Agnolo continued his recitals, refreshing himself every now and again with renewed glances from the window.

'A splendid view we have here, only some processions are not so pleasant as the one that passed today. There was one in particular—some weeks ago—we stayed in the back of the house that day. The old Visconti rode to Brescia, the soldiers said, his son behind him! Ah, for that day's work the Duke is a lost soul, Ambrogio.'

There was a silence after this; the painter kept his eyes on the darkening sky.

Ambrogio dropped his brush and rose with a pale face. 'I can paint no more,' he said. 'I am weary.'

His daughter's lover sometimes puzzled Agnolo. His history, as he had told it to them, was a very plain one, his career straightforward, but Ambrogio's manner strangely varied: sometimes authoritative, strangely cold and haughty for a poor painter; strident sometimes, curious and overawing. But to Graziosa he was always tender, and she saw nothing now but his pale face.

'No wonder thou art weary,' she said tenderly. ''Tis a long way from St Joseph, thy hand pains thee, and thou hast had no food.'

Ambrogio stooped and kissed her upon her upturned face.

'And I cannot stay for it even to take it from thy hands,' he said with a sigh. 'I meant not to stay at all, and only came to give thee thy bracelet, sweet; but soon, soon the altar-piece will be finished, and I come never to return.'

'Finished,' murmured the girl, her head against his arm. 'When?'

'By midsummer, Graziosa. Is the time so long to thee too?'

'I am so happy, Ambrogio, it does not seem possible I could be happier; still, I think I shall be when thy altar-piece is finished.'

Ambrogio looked at his painting longingly.

'If I could only stay,' he said, and kissed her again.

'Surely it is still early, even for St Joseph?' said Agnolo. Ambrogio glanced out into the dusky street, where several gaily attired horsemen were riding.

'The Prior begged my early return,' he said. 'And so farewell, my father, for a little while, farewell!'

'Well, if it must be, it must,' said Vistarnini cheerfully, 'thou wilt never fail for lack of industry. Still, Graziosa, even if thy lover goes, there is something left to amuse us. This evening the nobles ride in to attend the feast Visconti gives tonight to the French Duke. 'Twill be a noble feast, yet I doubt if the Lady Valentine be as happy as thou art, Graziosa.'

But his daughter returned no answer, for she was not there, but at the top of the dark stairway. She was saying farewell to her betrothed; and when Agnolo turned from the window, she was leaning on his arm across the courtyard; for a last word at the gate.

'When comest thou again?' she whispered.

'Thy father jeers me for my industry, yet heaven knows what it costs me to leave thee, sweet. In two days' time I will again be with thee.'

They were at the door, but still he lingered, gazing on her gentle face.

'Farewell,' he said at last, with a smile. 'For two days, my beautiful Graziosa.' He took her face between his hands and kissed her.

'Farewell,' she smiled, and with a sudden effort he was gone.

But once well clear of the house, Graziosa's lover paused as if undecided, then drew his hood, and wrapped himself closely in his mantle and walked rapidly into the city, keeping close to the wall. After some time he drew the bandage from his hand and flung it aside.

His left hand was as whole as his right.

Again he walked on rapidly, until, at the corner of a quiet street, a man with bent shoulders and dressed in black stepped from the shadow of a building.

It was Giannotto.

'News, Giannotto?' asked Graziosa's lover in a whisper.

'I am waiting for you, my lord, to tell you they are growing impatient.