Chapter I

"Ho, _Tiziano_! Ala-ala-_ho_! _Tizi-ah-no_!"

The group in the gondola raised a merry call. The gondola rocked at the foot of a narrow flight of steps leading to a tall, sombre dwelling. The moonlight that flooded the gondola and steps revealed no sign of life in the dark front.

The young man sitting with his back to the gondolier raised the call again: "What, ho!--Tiziano!" The clear, tenor voice carried far, and occupants of passing gondolas turned to look and smile at the dark, handsome youth as they drifted past.

The door at the top of the steps opened and Titian ran lightly down. He carried in his hand a small lute with trailing purple ribbons, and the cap that rested on his thick curls was of purple velvet. He lifted it with gentle grace as he stepped into the gondola and took the vacant seat beside a young woman facing the bow of the boat.

Her smiling face was turned to him mockingly. "Late again, Signor Cevelli, and yet again!" She plucked at the strings of a small instrument lying on her lap, and the notes tinkled the music of her words.

"Pardon, Signora, a thousand pardons to you and to your gracious lord!" He bowed to the man opposite him.

"Giorgio? Oh--Giorgio doesn't mind." Her soft lips smiled. "He's too big and lazy. He never minds." Her laugh rose light and sweet. The three men joined in.

The boat shot into midstream. It threaded its way among the brilliant craft that floated in the moonlight, or shot by them under vigorous strokes. Many glances were turned toward the boat as it passed. The face of Titian was well known and that of the woman beside him was the face of many pictures; while the big man opposite--her husband--the famous Giorgione, was the favorite of art-loving Venice. It was a group to attract attention at any time. But it was the fourth member of the group that drew the eyes and held them to-night.

He was a stranger to Venice, newly come from Rome--known in Venice years ago, it was whispered--a mere stripling. Now the face and figure had the beauty and the strength of manhood.... A famous courtesan touched her red-gold locks and laughed sweetly as she drifted by. But the sombre, dark face with the inscrutable eyes and the look of power did not turn. He sat, for the most part, a little turned away, looking at the waves dancing with leaden lights under the moon and running in ripples from the boat. Now and then his lips curved in a smile at some jest of his companions, or his eyes rested on the face of the woman opposite--and filled with gentle, wondering light.

Titian, watching him from beside the young woman, marvelled at the look of mystery and the strength. He leaned forward, about to speak--but Giorgione stayed him with a gesture.

"The Fondaco," he said, raising his hand to the gondolier. "Ho, there! Halt for the Fondaco!"

The boat came slowly to rest at the foot of the great building that rose white and gray and new in the half light. Giorgione's eye ran lovingly along the front. "To-morrow," he said, "we begin the last frescos. You, Titian, on the big facade to the south, and Zarato and I--" He laid his hand affectionately on the arm of the young man at his side, "Zarato and I on the inner court."

The youth started and looked up. His eyes studied the massive walls, with the low, arching porticos and long unbroken lines. "A noble piece of work," he said.

Giorgione nodded. "German and Venetian mixed." He laughed softly. "With three Venetians at the frescos--we shall see, ah--we shall see!" He laughed again good-humoredly.

The boat shot under the Rialto and came out again in the clear moonlight.

"To-morrow," said Giorgione, looking back, "to-morrow we begin."

"To-morrow Zarato comes to me--for his portrait." Titian spoke quickly, almost harshly. His eyes were on the young man's face.

The gondola stirred slightly. Every one looked at the young man. He sat staring at Titian, a look half amused and half perplexed in his dark eyes. The look broke and ran. "Is it so!" he said almost gayly.

Titian nodded grimly. "You come to me."

Giorgione leaned forward. "But I can't spare him," he pleaded. "I can't spare you. The work is late, and the Council hammer at a man! You must wait."

"Just one day," said Titian briefly. "I block in the outlines. It can wait then--a year, six months--I care not."

Giorgione's face regained its look of good-humor. "But you are foolish, Titian, foolish! Paint doges, if you will, paint popes and dukes--paint gold. But never paint an artist--an artist and a gentleman!"

They laughed merrily and the boat glided on--out into the lagoon and the broad, flooding moonlight.

"Sing something," said Giorgione. He raised the flute to his lips, breathing into it a gay, gentle air. The lute and cithara, from the opposite side, took it up. Presently the tenor voice joined in, carrying the air with sweet, high notes. They fell softly on the ear.

The slender fingers plucking at the cithara faltered. The bosom beneath its white tunic, where a single pansy glowed, trembled with swift breathing, and the red lips parted in a quick sigh.

Titian looked up, smiling reproachfully: "Violante! ah, Violante!" he murmured softly.

She shook her head smilingly. A tear rested on her cheek. "I cannot help it," she said; "it is the music."

"Yes, it is the music," said Titian. His tone was dry--half cynical.

Her husband looked over with faithful eyes and smiled at her.

Only Zarato had not looked up. His eyes followed the dancing leaden water. A flush had come into his sallow cheek. But the moonlight did not reveal it.

Violante glanced at him timidly.

"Come, we will try again," she said. She swept her cithara, and the tenor voice took up the notes. "Faster!" she said. The time quickened. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone.

"_Chi boit et ne reboit, ne cais qua boir soit_," rang out the voice.

"_Qua boir soit--qua boir soit_," repeated Violante softly.

The duet rose, full and sweet and clear, with passionate undertones. Slowly it died away, calling to itself across the lighted water.

The two men applauded eagerly. "Bella!" murmured Giorgione. "Once more!--Bella!" He clapped his hands.

Again the music rose. Once the eyes of the singers met--a long, slow look. The time quickened a little, and the music deepened.

Titian sat watching them, his head in its velvet cap, thrown back against the cushions, his lips smiling dreamily. His eye strayed over the voluptuous figure at his side--the snowy tunic and the ruby-red bodice and skirt. He knew the figure well, the red-gold hair and wondrous eyes. But a new look had come into them--something tender, almost sweet.

He leaned forward as the music ceased. "You shall pose for me," he said under his breath. "I want you for the Duke's picture."

She nodded slightly, her bosom rising and falling.

Giorgione leaned forward, smiling.

"What is that?" he asked. His eyes rested tenderly on the flushed face and the full lips of his wife. "What is it you say?"

"I want her for Bacchante," said Titian, "for the Duke's picture." He had not removed his eyes from her face.

Giorgione smiled. Then his face darkened. "My frescos! Oh, my frescos!" he murmured tragically. "But _you_ will help, Zarato. You will not go paint for dukes and popes?" The tone was half laughing and half querulous.

The young man roused himself and looked at him questioningly. He drew his hand across his eyes. "What is it?" he said dreamily. "What is it?" His face flushed. "Help you? Yes, I will help you--if--I can."