Agnolo continued his recitals, refreshing himself every now and again with renewed glances from the window.
"A splendid view we have here, only some processions are not so pleasant as the one that passed to-day. There was one in particular—some weeks ago—we stayed in the back of the house that day. The old Visconti rode to Brescia, the soldiers said, his son behind him! Ah, for that day's work the Duke is a lost soul, Ambrogio."
There was a silence after this; the painter kept his eyes on the darkening sky.
Ambrogio dropped his brush and rose with a pale face.
"I can paint no more," he said. "I am weary."
His daughter's lover sometimes puzzled him. His history, as he had told it to them, was a very plain one, his career straightforward, but Ambrogio's manner strangely varied: sometimes authoritative, strangely cold and haughty for a poor painter; strident, sometimes curious and overawing. But to Graziosa he was always tender, and she saw nothing now but his pale face.
"No wonder thou art weary," she said tenderly. "'Tis a long way from St. Joseph, thy hand pains thee, and thou hast had no food."
Ambrogio stooped and kissed her upon her upturned face.
"And I cannot stay for it even to take it from thy hands," he said with a sigh. "I meant not to stay at all, and only came to give thee thy bracelet, sweet; but soon, soon the altar-piece will be finished, and I come never to return."