The colours were fetched, and he selected
those he wanted, by the fast declining rays of
the sun. Preparations for a good strong light
were made; and the good father promised
to come and superintend it himself. Before the
twilight had ceased, the figure was sketched in
by a rapid and masterly hand. When the
good priest came according to his promise, to
light the tall wax candles which were to illuminute
the night vigil, he was astonished at
the progress that had been made. Silently
the old man mounted the scaffold; lighted
the thick tapers in the tall, massive gold candle-
sticks, that stood on either side of the picture;
silently descended, glided over the pavement,
and put some bread and wine in a corner which
Eric had pointed out. And then he stood
and watched him. Rapidly he sketched,
rapidly put in the colours. The soft night
breeze came in at the open window; and the
broad full moon poured down a flood of silver
light through the many-coloured panes, and
strewed the pavement with the varied hues
of the rainbow. Everything was so hushed,
so still, that the hum of the fire-flies was
heard as they danced beneath the trees
which overshadowed the sleeping dead in the
churchyard; and a full-throated bird sang
all night in a neighbouring wood.

Midnight struck. In the deep silence, the
muffled strokes on the bell, high up in the
tower, throbbed through the church, as if dealt
by the hand of some mighty and invisible
giant. The old priest went out; Eric had
not seen him; he was absorbed in his work,
body and soul. And there, by the light of
the huge wax tapers, in the deep silence of
the night, his vision sprang into being beneath
his rapid, skilful fingers. The moon
faded, the bright stars vanished from the
face of the glorious sun, all nature sprang
into life; and, when the good old priest
stood again in the church behind Eric, he
found him still at work. The sun streaming
in through the east windows, through
gorgeous hues of crimson and blue, poured a
purple radiance round his head. The father
stood amazed. He saw the figure of the
Holy Child in all its beauty. The countenance
was entirely finished. The calm blue
eyes seemed to pour down a flood of light on
the amazed doctors, listening intently to the
words proceeding from the parted lips. The
shining gold curls rolled down upon the
shoulders; the pure white festal robe, in
which He had "come up to Jerusalem"
flowed down to the pavement, but did not
conceal the sandalled feet. He seemed to be
in the act of descending the steps, around and
upon which the doctors were grouped. The
left foot was on a step higher than the right,
and was lifted, as if the child were coming
forward, perhaps to descend to the very steps
of the altar itself. The left arm was raised,
the hand pointing to heaven; the right hung
down by his side, grasping a parchment-roll
from which he seemed to be expounding.

The priest stood in silent wonder. Eric
was now busy on the folds of the pure linen
garment. He did not notice that any one
was in the church, any more than he had
noticed the old man's presence on the evening
before. The hours passed, and he still
lingered over his work, loth to part with it,
for, to the good father's eye, it seemed finished;
still he did not like to speak to him; and if
he had spoken, Eric would not have heard him,
so wholly was he absorbed in his work. The
priest saw with concern that the bread and
wine had not been touched. Fain would he
have asked him to come down and eat
something, but he dared not interrupt the
work, and the rapt worker. Some one came
to fetch him to the bed-side of the man ill
of fever; they thought he was dying. He
left the church. Schwartz still lay where
his master had left him. Some hours elapsed
before the priest returned. When, at last, he
was released from the numerous claims on his
attention, he came back to the church. The
painting was finished. The artist was no
longer on the scaffold. He appeared to be
kneeling on the steps of the altar, as if
returning thanks for his finished work. The
good father went up to him, he was lying
prostrate at the foot of the altar, his head
on the first step. The priest raised him; he
thought he was dead, but he had only fainted.
Weakened by his previous illness; the fierce
emotions he had experienced on again meeting
Marie, the rapid flight from Rome, the
night watch, the long fast, the absorption in
his work—all had been too much for him.
The priest called for assistance; he was
lifted and carried gently to the priest's
house, and laid on the priest's bed. The
scaffold was taken down; the people flocked
to the church to see the wonderful figure of
the Holy Child; the report of its beauty
spread abroad. Next day the church was
full to overflowing; and, while the anthem
swelled down the aisles, and the people worshipped,
and money was poured into the box
for the poor, Eric lay tossing in the delirium
of the fever that was heavy on the village.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.

CARL returned to Rome three days before
the expiration of the fortnight. They
had encountered a squall at sea which had
damaged the yacht so much that it was
thought prudent to bring her home for
repairs. Refreshed by his holiday, invigorated
by the sea-breeze, and excited by the danger
they had been in, Carl stepped lightly along
the street which led to his and Eric's
lodgings. He had a whole budget of fresh
ideas and new thoughts, to impart to Eric,
and he anticipated with pleasure the work
they were to begin together, and wondered
whether Eric had been to look after the marble,
as he promised. He bounded up the
steps of the old palace, and met the portress
before he reached the door of the studio.