Titian shrank back in horror. "You are mad!" he said.
Giorgione shook his head sadly. "I wish I were mad ... my eyes have seen too much." He rubbed his hand across them vaguely.
"Sleep—" he murmured. "A little sleep." The potion was beginning to take effect.
Titian laid him on the couch near by and hurried from the studio.
"Home!" he said to the white-robed gondolier who looked back for orders. "Home! Row for life!"
A sense of vague horror haunted him. He dared not think what tragedy might be enacting. A man of Zarato's proud spirit—"Faster!" he called to the laboring gondolier, and the boat shot under the awning.
With a sigh of relief he closed the door of his studio behind him.... On the couch across the room, his cap fallen to the floor and his arms hanging at his sides, lay the young man asleep. Titian moved forward, scanning eagerly the dark, handsome face. Deep shadows lay under the closed lids, and a look of scornful suffering touched the lines of the mouth. Slowly his eyes traversed the figure. He gave a start and bent closer, his eyes peering forward.... The left hand trailing on the floor was gloved, but above the low wrist a faint line shot up—a blotch on the firm flesh.
With an exclamation of horror he dropped to his knees and lifted the hand.
It rested limply in his grasp.
Slowly the eyes opened and looked out at him. A faint flush overspread the young man's face. He withdrew the hand and sat up. "I came to tell you the portrait—must wait," he said apologetically, "I fell asleep." He picked up his cap from the floor and smoothed its ruffled surface. "I must go now." He looked awkwardly at his friend and got to his feet.