so that only Contarini should hear it. After a time he had been allowed
to come away. No--Contarini had given no direct answer, he had sent no
reply; he had only said aloud to his friends that the message he
received was expected. That was all. The friends who were there? Zorzi
answered with perfect truth that he did not remember to have seen, any
of them before.

Beroviero was silent for a while, considering the story.

"He would have thought it discourteous to leave his friends," he said at
last, "or to whisper an answer to a messenger in their presence. He said
that he had expected the message, he will therefore come."

To this Zorzi answered nothing, for he was glad not to be questioned
further about what had happened. Presently Beroviero settled to his work
with his usual concentration. For many months he had been experimenting
in the making of fine red glass of a certain tone, of which he had
brought home a small fragment from one of his journeys. Hitherto he had
failed in every attempt. He had tried one mixture after another, and had
produced a score of different specimens, but not one of them had that
marvellous light in it, like sunshine striking through bright blood,
which he was striving to obtain. It was nearly three weeks since his
small furnace had been allowed to go out, and by this time he alone knew
what the glowing pots contained, for he wrote down very carefully what
he did and in characters which he believed no one could understand but
himself.

As usual every morning, he proceeded to make trial of the materials
fused in the night. The furnace, though not large, held three crucibles,
before each of which was the opening, still called by the Italian name