Agnolo paused now for want of breath, and glanced at his companion. But Francisco offered no response. His face was turned away, and his hands were clenched. The little painter had a vague sense of having allowed a mere artist's enthusiasm to carry him too far into a dangerous theme. "Ah, well," he continued in a deprecating tone, "a splendid sight truly, and one to fire the blood, but I am a man of peace, and I greatly grieve Della Scala should have perished. He was a noble prince." The stranger rose abruptly. "Do not speak of Della Scala," he said harshly. "I love to hear his name as little as Visconti's. His was the crime of failure." "Failure! Who would not have failed?" said Agnolo gently, for he thought he spoke to one who must have lost his all in the sacked town. "I know little of such things, but 'twas here and there asserted he fell by craft as well as force, and he was a great soldier and an honorable man, Messer Francisco." "He had all the virtues, doubtless," said Francisco, "and lost Verona." "And his life!" replied the painter. "Ah, well, these things are grievous! The saints protect my daughter from all share in them," and he glanced affectionately toward Graziosa, returning through the gray-green willows with lilies in her hands. "For my pictures," said the painter, pointing to them. "I am painting an altar-piece--for the lunettes. I shall have Graziosa as St. Katherine, and Ambrogio (her betrothed, messer) as St. Michael. These flowers will make the border." He took some as he spoke, and began arranging them in wreaths. Francisco would scarcely have heeded the speaker's words, save that his glance was caught almost involuntarily by the girl's sweet blush at mention of her lover's name. "Thy betrothed," he murmured, interested a moment in the happiness that was such a contrast to his own feeling. "And does he paint too?" Graziosa looked up with sparkling eyes. "Beautifully," she said eagerly. "He is at work now in the Church of San' Apollinare in Brescia. We have not seen his painting, the journey is too long; but some of the panel bits he has shown us, and they are noble." Francisco smiled faintly at her outspokenness, and her father laughed good-humoredly. "Thou must not listen to her," he said. "She overrates his painting. He paints well, truly, but cold! ah, so cold; no spirit in it! He will sit for hours thinking how the fold of a robe should fall. I, however, have seen Taddeo Gaddi paint! The angels would seem to flow from his brush as if he gave no thought to them!" But Graziosa turned a smiling face from the boat she was unmooring. "His altar-piece will draw all Lombardy," she cried.