ran across his window, and, squeezing out, he began
to climb down, hand over hand, dangling and
swinging to and fro. The rope was stout and good,
and now he could steady himself by catching his
toes in the great iron rings fastened into the wall,
until at last he dropped breathless into the street
below.

Next day, when Cosimo came to see how the
painting went on, he saw indeed the pictures and
the brushes, but no painter was there. Quickly he
stepped to the open window, and there he saw the
dangling rope of sheets, and guessed at once how
the bird had flown.

Through the streets they searched for the missing
painter, and before long he was found and brought
back. Filippo tried to look penitent, but his eyes
were dancing with merriment, and Cosimo must
needs laugh too.

`After all,' said Filippo, `my talent is not like a
beast of burden, to be driven and beaten into doing
its work. It is rather like one of those heavenly
visitors whom we willingly entertain when they
deign to visit us, but whom we can never force
either to come or go at will.'

`Thou art right, friend painter,' answered the
great man. `And when I think how thou and thy