The disciple raised his eyes and tried to speak; but his voice died in his throat, his lip trembled, and he burst into tears.
'Master—forgive me!'
'You have done me no wrong.'
'I knew not what I did,' murmured Boltraffio. 'How, O God! how could I have left you?'
He would have told his sufferings, his madness, the anguish of his terrible doubts. But as when at Milan he had stood before the Colossus of Francesco Sforza, he felt that Leonardo would have no comprehension; and in hopeless entreaty he looked into his eyes—eyes clear, calm, and alien as the stars.
As if divining the conflict in his soul, the Master did not question him; he smiled with infinite kindness, and laying his hand on the young head he said:—
'God help you, my poor boy: you know I have ever loved you as my favourite son! Will you come back to me? I will receive you with joy.'
Then, scarce audibly, as if speaking to himself, he added:—
'The deeper the sensitiveness, the greater the grief. A martyr among the martyrs!'
From afar came the clash of the bells, the scream of the chant, the cry of the frenzied mob. But Master and pupil were happy.