After Beroviero had given him these orders, Zorzi had plenty of time for
reflection, for his master said nothing more, and became absorbed in his
work, weighing out portions of different ingredients and slowly mixing
each with the coloured earths and chemicals that were already in the
wooden trough. There was nothing to do but to tend the fire, and Zorzi
pushed in the pieces of Istrian beech wood with his usual industrious
regularity. It was the only part of his work which he hated, and when he
was obliged to do nothing else, he usually sought consolation in
dreaming of a time when he himself should be a master glass-blower and
artist whom it would be almost an honour for a young man to serve, even
in such a humble way. He did not know how that was to happen, since
there were strict laws against teaching the art to foreigners, and also
against allowing any foreign person to establish a furnace at Murano;
and the glass works had long been altogether banished from Venice on
account of the danger of fire, at a time when two-thirds of the houses
were of wood. But meanwhile Zorzi had learned the art, in spite of the
law, and he hoped in time to overcome the other obstacles that opposed
him.

There was strength of purpose in every line of his keen young face,
strength to endure, to forego, to suffer in silence for an end ardently
desired. The dark brown hair grew somewhat far back from the pale
forehead, the features were youthfully sharp and clearly drawn, and deep
neutral shadows gave a look of almost passionate sadness to the black
eyes. There was quick perception, imagination, love of art for its own
sake in the upper part of the face; its strength lay in the well-built
jaw and firm lips, and a little in the graceful and assured poise of the
head. Zorzi was not tall, but he was shapely, and moved without effort.