and put it into his pocket.

"It is not a bad one," he muttered. "How many cherubs' eyes I have made
with that thing!"

He turned to the slate and examined the rough model he had made in wax,
flat still, and only indicated by vigorous touches, the red material
smeared on the black surface all around it by his fingers. There was
force in the figure, even in its first state, and there was a strange
pathos in the bent head, the only part as yet in high relief. But Marzio
looked at it angrily. He turned it to the light, closed his eyes a
moment, looked at it again, and then, with an incoherent oath, his long,
discoloured hand descended on the model, and, with a heavy pressure and
one strong push, flattened out what he had done, and smeared it into a
shapeless mass upon the dark stone.

"I shall never do it," he said in a low voice. "They have destroyed my
idea."

For some minutes he rested his head in his hand in deep thought. At
last he rose and went to a corner of the workshop in which stood a
heavily ironed box. Marzio fumbled in his pocket till he found a key,
bright from always being carried about with him, and contrasting oddly
with the rusty lock into which he thrust it. It turned with difficulty
in his nervous fingers, and he raised the heavy lid. The coffer was full
of packages wrapped in brown paper. He removed one after another till he
came to a wooden case which filled the whole length and breadth of the
safe. He lifted it out carefully and laid it on the end of the bench.
The cover was fastened down by screws, and he undid them one by one
until it moved and came off in his hands. The contents were wrapped