"Zarato," said Titian sternly. "Where is she?"
He shook his head. "I don't know," slowly.
"You don't know! She has left home——"
"But not with me."
The two men stood staring at each other.
There was a sound of steps in the hall and the door swung open. It was a group of Venetian boatmen, bearing in their midst a wet, sagging form. The red-gold hair trailed heavily. They moved stolidly across the room and laid their burden on the low bench. The oldest of them straightened his back and looked apologetically at the wet marks on the shining floor.
"He said to bring her here, Signor." He motioned clumsily toward the wet figure. "He said so."
"Who said it?" said Titian harshly.
"Signor—The Signor—Giorgione.... We took her there. He would not let us in. He stood at the window. He was laughing. He said to bring her here," ended the old man stolidly. "She is long dead." He bent to pick up the heavy litter. The group shuffled from the room.
Slowly the young man crossed to the bench. He knelt by the motionless figure and, drawing the glove from his hand, laid it on the breast that shone in the wet folds.