Giorgione nodded. "German and Venetian mixed." He laughed softly. "With three Venetians at the frescos—we shall see, ah—we shall see!" He laughed again good-humoredly.
The boat shot under the Rialto and came out again in the clear moonlight.
"To-morrow," said Giorgione, looking back, "to-morrow we begin."
"To-morrow Zarato comes to me—for his portrait." Titian spoke quickly, almost harshly. His eyes were on the young man's face.
The gondola stirred slightly. Every one looked at the young man. He sat staring at Titian, a look half amused and half perplexed in his dark eyes. The look broke and ran. "Is it so!" he said almost gayly.
Titian nodded grimly. "You come to me."
Giorgione leaned forward. "But I can't spare him," he pleaded. "I can't spare you. The work is late, and the Council hammer at a man! You must wait."
"Just one day," said Titian briefly. "I block in the outlines. It can wait then—a year, six months—I care not."
Giorgione's face regained its look of good-humor. "But you are foolish, Titian, foolish! Paint doges, if you will, paint popes and dukes—paint gold. But never paint an artist—an artist and a gentleman!"
They laughed merrily and the boat glided on—out into the lagoon and the broad, flooding moonlight.