Chapter V

It still haunted him as he laid out brushes and colors in his studio for the appointed sitting with Zarato.

He brought the canvas from the wall and placed it on the easel and stood back, examining it critically. His face lighted and he hummed softly, gazing at the rough outline.... Slowly, in the smudge of the vague face, gleaming eyes formed themselves--Giorgione's eyes! They looked out at him, pathetic and fierce.

With an exclamation of disgust he threw down the brush. He looked about him for his cap, and found it at last--on the back of his head. He settled it more firmly in place. "There will be time," he muttered. "I shall be back in time." With a swift glance about him he was gone from the room, and on the way to Giorgione's studio.

As he opened the door he saw Giorgione's great figure huddled together against the eastern window. Bars of light fell across it and danced on the floor. Titian crossed the studio quickly and touched the bent shoulder.

The eyes that looked up were those that had called him. Giorgione's eyes--a fierce, pathetic light in their depths. They gazed at him stupidly. "What is it?" asked the man. He spoke thickly and half rose, gazing curiously about the room. He ran a hand across his forehead and looked at Titian vaguely. "What is it?" he repeated.

Titian fell back a step. "That's what I came to find out," he said frankly. He was more startled than he cared to show.

"What has happened, Giorgione?" His tone was gentle, as if speaking to a child, and he took him by the shoulder to lead him to a seat.

For a moment the man resisted. Then he let himself be led, passively, and sank back in the chair with a hoarse sigh. He looked about the studio as if seeking something--and afraid of it. "She's gone!" he whispered.

Titian started. "No!"

Giorgione laughed harshly. "Fled as a bird," he said gayly, "a bird that was snared." He hummed a few bars of the song and stopped, his gaze fixed on vacancy. A great shudder broke through him, and he buried his face in his hands. There was no movement but the heave of his shoulders, and no sound. The light upon the floor danced in the stillness.

Titian's eyes rested on it, perplexed. He crossed the room swiftly and touched a bell. He gave an order and waited with his hand on his friend's shoulder till the servant returned.

"Drink this," he said firmly, bending over him. He was holding a long, slender glass to his lips.

The man quaffed it--slowly at first, then eagerly. "Yes, that is good!" he said as he drained the glass. "I tremble here." He laid his hand on his heart. "And my hand is strange." He smiled--a wan, wintry smile--and looked at his friend with searching eyes.

"Where have they gone?" he demanded.

Titian shook his head. "How should I know?"

"He said he was going to you."

"Zarato?" Titian started. "For the portrait--He will be there!"

Giorgione broke into a harsh laugh. "No portrait for Zarato!" He said it exultantly.

"What do you mean!"

"He bears a beauty mark." He laughed again.

"You did not----?"

Giorgione glanced cunningly about the studio. His big face worked and his eyes were flushed. He laid his hand on his lips.

"Hush!" he said. "It is a secret--I--she--branded him with this." A piece of heavy iron lay on the sill--the wood near it blackened and charred. He took it up fondly.

"Look!" He pointed to the fire-worn end.

Titian shrank back in horror. "You are mad!" he said.

Giorgione shook his head sadly. "I wish I were mad ... my eyes have seen too much." He rubbed his hand across them vaguely.

"Sleep--" he murmured. "A little sleep." The potion was beginning to take effect.

Titian laid him on the couch near by and hurried from the studio.

"Home!" he said to the white-robed gondolier who looked back for orders. "Home! Row for life!"

A sense of vague horror haunted him. He dared not think what tragedy might be enacting. A man of Zarato's proud spirit--"Faster!" he called to the laboring gondolier, and the boat shot under the awning.

With a sigh of relief he closed the door of his studio behind him.... On the couch across the room, his cap fallen to the floor and his arms hanging at his sides, lay the young man asleep. Titian moved forward, scanning eagerly the dark, handsome face. Deep shadows lay under the closed lids, and a look of scornful suffering touched the lines of the mouth. Slowly his eyes traversed the figure. He gave a start and bent closer, his eyes peering forward.... The left hand trailing on the floor was gloved, but above the low wrist a faint line shot up--a blotch on the firm flesh.

With an exclamation of horror he dropped to his knees and lifted the hand.

It rested limply in his grasp.

Slowly the eyes opened and looked out at him. A faint flush overspread the young man's face. He withdrew the hand and sat up. "I came to tell you the portrait--must wait," he said apologetically, "I fell asleep." He picked up his cap from the floor and smoothed its ruffled surface. "I must go now." He looked awkwardly at his friend and got to his feet.

"Zarato," said Titian sternly. "Where is she?"

He shook his head. "I don't know," slowly.

"You don't know! She has left home----"

"But not with me."

The two men stood staring at each other.

There was a sound of steps in the hall and the door swung open. It was a group of Venetian boatmen, bearing in their midst a wet, sagging form. The red-gold hair trailed heavily. They moved stolidly across the room and laid their burden on the low bench. The oldest of them straightened his back and looked apologetically at the wet marks on the shining floor.

"He said to bring her here, Signor." He motioned clumsily toward the wet figure. "He said so."

"Who said it?" said Titian harshly.

"Signor--The Signor--Giorgione.... We took her there. He would not let us in. He stood at the window. He was laughing. He said to bring her here," ended the old man stolidly. "She is long dead." He bent to pick up the heavy litter. The group shuffled from the room.

Slowly the young man crossed to the bench. He knelt by the motionless figure and, drawing the glove from his hand, laid it on the breast that shone in the wet folds.

"I swear, before God--" he said ... "before God!" He swayed heavily and fell forward.

The artist sprang to his side. As he touched him, his eye fell on the ungloved hand.... Shuddering, he reached over and lifted the glove from the wet breast. He drew it over the hand, covering it from sight.