What reply Laura made to this speech, if indeed she made any, we do not feel ourselves called upon to chronicle; suffice it to say that she did not, by word, look, or deed evince the smallest symptom of having repented of her bargain. A pause ensued, which was broken by Leicester, who exclaimed—
“By Jove! I was very nearly forgetting all about it—what’s o’clock?” then drawing out a small enamelled watch, one of the relics of former days of dandyism, he continued, “half-past three; there is just time. I have procured an order to see the pictures Cardinal d’Ancona was telling you about last week.”
“Oh, the two paintings from Lord Byron’s ‘Giaour,’ by the young artist about whom no one knows anything, and who is said to be a genius? I’m so glad; when shall we go?” inquired Laura.
“Why, it’s a case of Hobson’s choice,” returned Leicester; “for it seems the painter was so tormented by idle people coming to his studio that he has been forced to lay down a rule only to admit visitors on two days in the week, from three till five; but the oddest part of the business is that he chooses to be absent on these occasions, leaving an old attendant to play cicerone—in fact, there appears to be some kind of mystery about the man. However, to-day is the day, so the sooner we’re off the better, more especially as I must be with the Consul by half-past four.”
“I shall be ready in less than five minutes,” rejoined Laura, “so let us prosecute this wondrous adventure by all means—a mystery is such a rarity in these matter-of-fact days, that even so small a one as that of a man who prefers avoiding one’s notice instead of seeking to obtrude himself upon it, is interesting.”
“When will women cease to be curious?” soliloquised Leicester, elongating his body in order to reach a newspaper without the trouble of rising. Another quarter of an hour saw them en route.
Under Leicester’s able guidance they stopped at the door of a small house at the corner of a street turning out of the square of St. Mark’s. On presenting the order an old man with grey hair came forward and ushered the visitors into a room lighted by a skylight, beneath which were arranged various pictures, some finished, others in a less forward state of preparation. After examining several of the smaller sketches, which displayed unusual talent, both Leicester and his wife paused with one accord before a large painting. The old cicerone approached them, “That is the picture,” he said in Italian, “about which every one is talking; it is very grand, but the companion picture is finer: the Signore has refused 600 guineas for the pair. They are taken from your Lord Byron’s poem, the ‘Giaour’; here is the passage, ecco lo!” As he spoke he pointed to the following stanzas—
“With sabre shiver’d to the hilt,
Yet dripping with the blood he spilt;
Yet strain’d within the sever’d hand