"No," said Francisco between grimness and scorn. "Do I look as if I did?"
The artist glanced anew at his huge frame and tattered attire, and mentally decided he did not.
"Ah, then thou dost not understand," he said; "but I, I am a painter. Agnolo Vistarnini is my name, messer, a student of Taddeo Gaddi." He swept off his leather cap with an air of profound respect.
"Ah, he could paint! I am far behind him, messer, but I can see! I can see! Which thou canst not," he added with superb pity.
"Graziosa," he called, turning to his daughter, "we will stay here awhile."
And seating himself on the bank, he produced from his wallet a panel of wood, polished and carefully planed, upon which he began to draw the outline of a corner of the scene, using a dark brown pigment.
Francisco fell again to brooding while the painter chattered on, dividing his attention between the panel and his daughter, who was wandering up the stream, filling with flowers a flat basket.
"Thou see'st yonder my daughter, messer," he said, pointing to the slender figure in blue. He blew a kiss in her direction. "She is the model for my angels——"
"And the model for thy devils?" asked Francisco suddenly.
Vistarnini started and looked around at the speaker.