of something else now, and he seldom noticed
if people praised or blamed him. His thoughts had
fixed themselves upon something he had seen that
morning which had troubled him. On the way to
the studio he had passed a tiny shop in a narrow
street where a seller of birds was busy hanging his
cages up on the nails fastened to the outside wall.

The thought of those poor little prisoners beating
their wings against the cruel bars and breaking their
hearts with longing for their wild free life, had
haunted him all day, and now he could bear it no
longer. He seized his cap and hurried off, all
forgetful of his kneeling angel and the master's
praise.

He reached the little shop and called to the man
within.

`How much wilt thou take for thy birds?' he
cried, and pointed to the little wooden cages that
hung against the wall.

`Plague on them,' answered the man, `they will
often die before I can make a sale by them. Thou
canst have them all for one silver piece.'

In a moment Leonardo had paid the money and
had turned towards the row of little cages. One
by one he opened the doors and set the prisoners