A mediæval monk of the most ascetic tastes could not have found fault with the appointments of this cell. A carved oak table littered with an artist's paraphernalia, a carved oak chair, and an iron lamp affixed to the central pillar constituted all the furniture of the place. The only other conspicuous object was the easel with its canvas. No fire had been lighted that day, though materials for one were laid in the grate, and the chilling atmosphere of the room sent a shiver through me. It was evident that the artist had been in the studio since our afternoon visit. For the lamp was alight, and the purple curtain had been taken down from the casement and now hung over the back of one of the chairs. All this I noticed at a glance, and then I eagerly approached the easel, and throwing off the sheet that covered it, I turned it so that the light from above fell full upon the canvas. The picture was a representation of the Flavian Amphitheatre in the days of its wicked old glory, when the balconies gleamed with mosaic-work of precious stones, and clouds of purple incense rose in the air. The galleries were crowded with spectators, and in the expression of the various countenances ample scope was given for the display of the artist's skill. Every character typical of the times was represented, from Imperial Cæsar viewing with cold disdain the death of the enemy of the gods, down to the secret Christian slave shuddering at the fate of his co-religionist. A purple velarium was drawn above the amphitheatre as a shield against the sun's rays, and the painter had displayed with artistic effect every object tinged with a faint violet hue. But the spectator of the picture felt at once that all these details were mere accessories. The arena--dotted here and there with helmet, shield, and spear, or the gilded net of the retairius--was intended to be _the_ feature of the picture. A magnificent Libyan lion, lashing his tail on the sands, was standing proudly erect, his flaming eyes fixed on something beneath his forepaws. That something was nothing; or, to be less paradoxical, what was to be there was not yet painted. The picture was in an unfinished state, and the dying martyr was not yet outlined upon the canvas. It was disappointing to contemplate the picture with what was evidently intended to be the central figure absent. I did not doubt that were it completed and exposed to public view it would create as great a furore as his last masterpiece.