The younger man made no reply. He was adjusting thepillows. He slipped a fresh one beneath the long white hair.
The locks strayed in a dull silvery glimmer over it.
“Ah， that is good，” murmured the old man. “Your hand islike a woman’s. I have not known many women，” he said， aftera pause.... “But I have not been lonely. Friends are faithful”—he pressed the youth’s warm hand. “His Majesty？”—the voiceended with a question.
“No， master. But there is yet time. He often comes at sunset.
See how bright it grows.”
The painter turned his head. He looked long. “Tell us whatthe wise physician said， Francesco. Will it be soon？”
“Nay， master， I know not. He said if you have any wishes—”
“Ah， yes.” He lay musing， his eyes looking across the room.
“There will be few bequests. My pictures—they are mine nolonger. Should a painter barter the sons and daughters of hissoul？... Gold cannot buy.... They are mine.... Four thousandshining gold pieces Francis put into my hand. He took awaythe Lisa. He would not be refused. But I followed. I couldnot live without her. When a man is old， Francesco， his handtrembles. He must see something he has done， somethingperfect....” He lay looking long at the portrait. “And yetit is not finished.... There was to be the child.” He smileddreamily. “Poor Bambino.” His eyes rested again on theportrait.... He smiled back upon it. “Yes， you will live，” he saidsoftly. “Francis will have you. You scorned him. But he wasgenerous. He gave you back to me. You will be his—his andhis children’s. I have no child—At least.... Ah， well—Franciswill have you. Leda and Pomona will pass. The Dominicanpicture... all but gone. The hand of time has rested on mywork. Crumbling—fading—nothing finished. I planned somuch. Life runs， Francesco， while one sits and thinks. Nothingfinished. My manus—do with them what you will. Icould not even write like other men—this poor left hand.” Helifted the filmy lace ruffle falling across his hand. He smiledironically at the costly folds， as they fluttered from his fingers.
“A man is poor who has few wants. Then I have not been poor.
But there is nothing left. It will be an empty name.”
Silence fell between them.
“There is in Florence a lady. You must seek for her，Francesco. She is rich and beautiful. She did me once akindness. I should like her—this ring—” He slipped it fromhis finger—a heavy stone， deep green， with translucent lights.
“It was my father’s crest. He gave it to my mother—not hiswife—a woman—faithful. She put it on my finger when shedied—a peasant woman. Tell the lady when you give it her ...
she has a son.... Tell her....” The voice fell hushed.
The young man waited， with bowed head. He looked up. Hestarted quickly， and leaned his ear to listen. Then he folded thehands across the quiet breast. He passed swiftly from the silentchamber， down to the courtyard， out on the King’s highway，mounted and fleet.
The French King was riding merrily. He carolled a gaychanson. His retinue followed at a distance. Francesco Melzisaluted and drew rein. He spoke a word in the monarch’s ear.
The two men stood with uncovered heads. They looked towardthe western windows. The gay cavalcade halted in the glow oflight. A hush fell on their chatter. The windows flamed in thecrimson flood. Within the room， above the gleaming coals， awoman of eternal youth looked down with tranquil gaze uponan old man’s face.