But Botticelli's Fortitude is no match, it may be, for any that are
coming. Worn, somewhat; and not a little weary, instead of standing
ready for all comers, she is sitting,--apparently in reverie, her
fingers playing restlessly and idly--nay, I think--even nervously,
about the hilt of her sword.

For her battle is not to begin to-day; nor did it begin yesterday. Many
a morn and eve have passed since it began--and now--is this to be the
ending day of it? And if this--by what manner of end?

That is what Sandro's Fortitude is thinking. And the playing fingers
about the sword-hilt would fain let it fall, if it might be: and yet,
how swiftly and gladly will they close on it, when the far-off trumpet
blows, which she will hear through all her reverie!

There is yet another picture of Sandro's here, which you must look at
before going back to Giotto: the small Judith in the room next the
Tribune, as you return from this outer one. It is just under Lionardo's
Medusa. She is returning to the camp of her Israel, followed by her
maid carrying the head of Holofernes. And she walks in one of
Botticelli's light dancing actions, her drapery all on flutter, and her
hand, like Fortitude's, light on the sword-hilt, but daintily--not
nervously, the little finger laid over the cross of it.

And at the first glance--you will think the figure merely a piece of
fifteenth-century affectation. 'Judith, indeed!--say rather the
daughter of Herodias, at her mincingest.'

Well, yes--Botticelli _is_ affected, in the way that all men in
that century necessarily were. Much euphuism, much studied grace of