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The night was coming on, and already his candle was fastened to
his hat, that he might lose no time. They had brought him a little bread
and wine for his evening meal, for often he went not home when the mood
of work possessed him; and beside him was a writing of the man
Savonarola--this and the Holy Evangel and the 'Inferno' fashioned his
thoughts. He lived not long after that, for we were still in Rome when
they made for him that great funeral in Santa Croce of Florence, the
rumor of which is dear to artist hearts. He was great and lonely, and he
knew no joy; there hath been none like him."
"And the Tintoretto, at Santa Maria dell' Orto?"
"He, too, is a _furioso_, wonderful in form--and the Michelangelo had
not the coloring of our Jacopo. But the terror of the Tintoretto is very
terrible and very human. The Michelangelo fills a great gloom with
phantasms--they question--and one cannot escape."
"It hath been a morning of delights," Girolamo said with grave courtesy
when the talk had come to an end.


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