Marzio's voice sank into a hissing whisper as he bent over the wax he
was twisting and pressing. Gianbattista glanced at his pale face, and
inwardly wondered at the strange mixture of artistic genius, of
bombastic rhetoric and relentless hatred, all combined in the strange
man whom destiny had given him for a master. He wondered, too, how he
had ever been able to admire the contrasts of virulence and weakness,
of petty hatred and impossible aspirations which had of late revealed
themselves to him in a new light. Have we not most of us assisted at the
breaking of the Image of Baal, at the destruction of an imaginary
representative of an illogical ideal?

"Well, Sor Marzio," said Gianbattista after a pause, "if I were to
return to my worship of you and your principles--what would you do?
Would you take me back to your friendship and give me your daughter?"

Marzio looked up suddenly, and stared at the apprentice in surprise. But
the fresh young face gave no sign. Gianbattista had spoken quietly, and
was again intent upon his work.

"If you gave me a proof of your sincerity," answered Marzio, in low
tones, "I would do much for you. Yes, I would give you Lucia--and the
business too, when I am too old to work. But it must be a serious
proof--no child's play."

"What do you call a serious proof? A profession of faith?"

"Yes--sealed with the red wax that is a little thicker than water,"
answered Marzio grimly, his eyes still fixed on Gianbattista's face.

"In blood," said the young man calmly. "Whose blood would you like, Sor