"A stranger? Ah, then, this is new to thee--this most beautiful part of Italy. I assure thee," he continued excitedly, "I have been through the fairest parts of Tuscany, I have wandered about Naples, but never have I seen such colors, such lights as here!" Again he waved his all-inclusive hand. "Thou, messer, as a stranger, must see how wonderfully fair it is?" He paddled the boat nearer among the reeds in his eagerness to obtain new sympathy. "I have not been used to judge lands by their beauty," returned Francisco. "Yet methinks I have seen spots as beautiful and easier to hold in time of need." The other twisted his mouth in contempt. The girl leaned forward, laughing. "You forget, father," she said, "everyone is not a painter." But the little man, as if he had found a sudden mission, secured the boat, and, still in silence, stepped ashore, helping his daughter to follow him. Francisco, preoccupied and mistrustful, saw this with uneasiness, and would gladly have withdrawn. Moreover, the smiling face of the happy girl was an added sting to a burning thought. The enthusiast, however, had no idea of giving up a possible convert, and swept aside the other's protestations while he commenced pointing out the beauties of the yellow lichen against the villa wall, the sight of which had restored all his good humor. "See!" he exclaimed. "How bright it is! See the contrast of the yew--so brilliant, yet so in harmony, so--you do not paint?" "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. "Devils! Messer!" He crossed himself. "God forbid there should be a model for such found anywhere," he said. "Yet methinks thou hast in thy city yonder," said Francisco with a bitter smile, "one who well might sit for the fiend himself: Visconti."