“One short swift stroke, and he had dealt himself the blow before ’Tino’s hand could stay him.
“But ’Tino set up his easel beside the corpse, and all the night through he painted—painted as if the Furies were upon him—till the dawn looked in at the window and his friend’s form took shape on the canvas, and the task that had been appointed him was done.
“Then ’Tino, too, vanished from among us, leaving the story of Cecco’s death in writing beside the corpse.
“And it was said by some, but never believed by those who knew him, that ’Tino had slain his friend.”
* * * * *
It was some time before I or Eric spoke.
“I wonder what became of ’Tino,” I murmured. “Stay; do not tell me, even if the legend has recorded it. I can picture it without words. Lonely he must have been, for he had seen that which must have built a barrier for ever between him and the world outside. And I can assume with equal certainty that he never handled brush or palette again. And sometimes—always at night—he would reappear at the church and watch through the darkness in company with his friend. Yes, lonely he must have been—but not unhappy, brightened by a great love here and by a vision of the Greater beyond.”
CHAPTER XX
When I returned to Fleetwater, Marion was gone. It was better so, I felt, much as I missed her. Indeed, our last good-bye had been said in the place she had chosen for it,—on the Chapel Hill where she had turned and left me.
Two days later Eric’s verdict on the picture came. It was short and to the point.