And strode amongst the painters, where they stood, With Carlo, the Venetian, at their head, Studying the Masters by the dawning light Of his transcendent genius. Through the groups Of gayly vestured artists moved the Count,-- As some lone cloud of thick and leaden hue, Packed with the secret of a coming storm, Moves through the gold and crimson evening mists, Deadening their splendor. In a moment, still Was Carlo's voice, and still the prattling crowd; And a great shadow overran them all, As their white faces and their anxious eyes Pursued Fernando in his moody walk. He paused, as one who balances a doubt, Weighing two courses, then burst out with this: "Ye all have seen the tidings in my face; Or has the dial ceased to register The workings of my heart? Then hear the bell, That almost cracks the frame in utterance: The Countess--she is dead!"--"Dead!" Carlo groaned. And if a bolt from middle heaven had struck His splendid features full upon the brow, He could not have appeared more scathed and blanched. "Dead!--dead!" He staggered to his easel-frame, And clung around it, buffeting the air With one wild arm, as though a drowning man Hung to a spar and fought against the waves.-- The Count resumed: "I came not here to grieve, Nor see my sorrow in another's eyes. Who'll paint the Countess, as she lies to-night In state within the chapel? Shall it be That earth must lose her wholly? that no hint Of her gold tresses, beaming eyes, and lips That talked in silence, and the eager soul That ever seemed outbreaking through her clay, And scattering glory round it,--shall all these Be dull corruption's heritage, and we, Poor beggars, have no legacy to show The love she bore us? That were shame to love, And shame to you, my masters." Carlo stalked Forth from his easel, stiffly as a thing Moved by mechanic impulse. His thin lips, And sharpened nostrils, and wan, sunken cheeks, And the cold glimmer in his dusky eyes, Made him a ghastly sight. The throng drew back, As if they let a spectre through. Then he, Fronting the Count, and speaking in a voice Sounding remote and hollow, made reply: "Count, I shall paint the Countess. 'Tis my fate,-- Not pleasure,--no, nor duty." But the Count, Astray in woe, but understood assent, Not the strange words that bore it; and he flung His arm round Carlo, drew him to his breast, And kissed his forehead. At which Carlo shrank: Perhaps 'twas at the honor. Then the Count, A little reddening at his public state,-- Unseemly to his near and recent loss,-- Withdrew in haste between the downcast eyes That did him reverence as he rustled by.