She was very youthful, and had what was usually thought to be a Jewish
aspect; a complexion in which there was no roseate bloom, yet neither
was it pale; dark eyes, into which you might look as deeply as your
glance would go, and still be conscious of a depth that you had not
sounded, though it lay open to the day. She had black, abundant hair,
with none of the vulgar glossiness of other women's sable locks; if she
were really of Jewish blood, then this was Jewish hair, and a dark glory
such as crowns no Christian maiden's head. Gazing at this portrait, you
saw what Rachel might have been, when Jacob deemed her worth the wooing
seven years, and seven more; or perchance she might ripen to be what
Judith was, when she vanquished Holofernes with her beauty, and slew him
for too much adoring it.

Miriam watched Donatello's contemplation of the picture, and seeing his
simple rapture, a smile of pleasure brightened on her face, mixed with a
little scorn; at least, her lips curled, and her eyes gleamed, as if she
disdained either his admiration or her own enjoyment of it.

"Then you like the picture, Donatello?" she asked.

"O, beyond what I can tell!" he answered. "So beautiful!--so beautiful!"

"And do you recognize the likeness?"

"Signorina," exclaimed Donatello, turning from the picture to the
artist, in astonishment that she should ask the question, "the
resemblance is as little to be mistaken as if you had bent over the
smooth surface of a fountain, and possessed the witchcraft to call forth
the image that you made there! It is yourself!"