"This is what I want you to do, little brother. Ah, yes, to die is not always the most difficult thing! These are the names and many of the faces of the 'juramento.' Keep them, and to-morrow, when I am gone, copy this sketch of the Carocchio going into the battle. Then, if I never come back, there will still be some one to paint the picture. When you find a prince, or some wealthy merchant, who will let you paint the Carocchio on his wall, do it and keep alive the glory of Milan. You will find some Milanese who will welcome you, however the game goes. And the picture will be so good--your picture and mine--that men will see and remember it whether they know the story or not. If they copy it, although the faces may not be like, they will yet carry the meaning--the standard of the free city above the conflict. Your promise, Patricio mio--and then--addio!" Padraig promised. The next day, when he came back to the little room at the end of the narrow stair, there was only the picture on the white sunlit wall. ST. ELOI'S BLESSING Clovis the King, proud of his golden thrones, Granted our Saint broad lands, whereon he should Build cloisters, work in gold and precious stones And carve in silver as it might be wood, And for God's glory--and the King's fair name-- Do miracles with metal and with flame. So to the world's end, where long-hoarded pelf Shone forth new-hallowed in the goldsmith's hand, Saint Eloi's craftsmen, as long since himself, Were honored where they went in every land, Yet still his heart was ever ours, and stayed Here in Limoges, the city that he made. Then all one night he knelt for us in prayer At the high altar, suing for this grace,-- That his fine art, in his true people's care, Should ripen rich as in none other place, And if gold fail, beauty to our desire Should we create, out of the earth and fire. All secret work of dainty orfreny Couchet in jeweled paternes brightly quaint, Balass and emeraut, sapphire, all should be Set in the triptych of the pictured saint, Or with new dreams of unwrought beauty haunted, Blend in amail deep hues of light enchanted. Then vanished all the vision--Saint Eloi With trembling saw it swallowed up in night. None may escape the laws of grief or joy, And when the day is done, then fails the light. Yet still he prayed--the dragon-darkness fled, And a new life dawned, risen from the dead. Soft smoothness like a creamy petaled rose, Rich roundness like the sun-filled apricot, Gold garlands twisted by some wind that blows From what strange land we craftsmen marvel not. And in this porcelain cup (he said) shall pour Joy of life, joy of craft, forevermore. XXI GOLD OF BYZANTIUM HOW GUY OF LIMOGES TAUGHT THE ART OF BYZANTIUM TO WILFRID OF SUSSEX