"His death furnished me with a noble idea in connection with the picture I was then painting, 'The Fall of Cæsar.' Did not Parrhasius when he wished to paint Prometheus chained to the rock and tortured by the vulture, order one of his slaves to be fettered, and the bosom of the shrieking captive to be laid open, that he might paint the agony of Prometheus in all its glorious reality? Gods! what a picture that must have been! Oh, that I, too, could have by me a man just slain, with the red blood distilling from the wounds! What a glorious model it would be! Its image transferred to the canvas would be the making of my picture. What realism it would exhibit! This work at least would not be called mediocre by the cold critics. Ah! bright thought! Captain Willard shall be my model. The very stroke that deprives a rival of life shall be the means of elevating me to fame. Could vengeance take a sweeter, a more subtle form?" It seemed an age since Angelo had begun his recital, but as the church-bells had not pealed the quarter, I knew he had not yet been fifteen minutes over it. My ears were keenly alert for any sound that might indicate that help was approaching, but everything was still and quiet outside the tower. "I met Captain Willard late on Christmas Eve returning from Daphne's house. I asked him to come to my studio for a few minutes: 'I have a surprise for you,' I said. So I had. As I spoke I had to turn my face from him to hide the light of triumph in my eyes. He came willingly enough, talking of the happy morrow. We were alone. I led him to a picture on an easel. 'A present for your bride; do you like it?' I said, standing behind him. Oh, what a thrill was going through me! 'Yes,' he replied--his last word! 'Well, how do you like _that_?' I cried as my weapon descended. Hatred--love--fame nerved my arm with a triple power, and I struck him down--down--down. This is how I did it." At this point the maniac sprang to his feet with the rapidity of lightning, and, lifting the dagger on high, made a swift downward stab at an ideal figure. My heart gave a great leap, for I thought he was going to strike me. "With one loud cry he dropped--thud! Oh, that cry! It rings in my ears still. It was the sweetest music to me. I stood over him with my dripping weapon ready to deal him a second stroke, and a red drop fell on his vest. I wanted him to cry, to move, to rise, that I might have the pleasure of striking him down once more. But he never moved after that one stroke, and I took him up in my arms and flung him down again that I might enjoy the luxury of the sound." Dropping the dagger, he illustrated his words by going through the motion of flinging a body to the ground. Anything more devilish than his manner I had never seen. "And he fell thus, and lay in this manner--_so_."