Astra went on:—
"'And on his feet he bound these sandals light,
The trail of whose wide leaves might not betray
His track; and then, a self-sufficing wight, * *
He from Pieria's mountain bent his flight,—'
driving the stolen cattle before him, of course. And this is the moment at which I have sought to represent him."
"And very perfectly you have succeeded," said Bergan, admiringly. "The arch cunning and malice of the face is simply wonderful. Indeed, it seems to me that the statue lacks but one thing."
"And what is that?" said Astra, quickly; at the same time flashing a swift, searching glance at her work, as if she would fain have anticipated the criticism.
"It does not tell how the story ended."
"Oh!" said Astra, looking both relieved and amused. "I am glad that you did not keep me waiting so long as Michael Angelo did poor Domenico."
"How long was that, pray?"
"You shall hear. Domenico Ghirlandaio, a celebrated Florentine painter, having completed a picture of St. Francis, upon which he had exhausted his utmost skill, and which seemed to him to be perfect, sent for a young artist of great promise, Buonarotti by name, (who had also been his pupil), and asked for his opinion of the work. The young man contemplated it for some moments, said gravely, 'It needs but one thing,' and departed. The master remained, to study the picture anew, to pore over it hour after hour, and day after day, and rack his brain with the question what it needed. Years after, when Buonarotti had become Michael Angelo, and filled the world with his fame, Domenico sent for him to come to his death-chamber. 'What did the picture need?' he asked, faintly. 'Only speech,' replied Michael Angelo. The old master smiled,—and died."
"It is a touching story," said Bergan. "And it is almost an allegory, too. For 'only speech' is so often the great need of life! All our deepest feeling and best thought are inarticulate. But am I to be indulged with the rest of this story, also?" he added, turning again to the statue.