"
"I am a painter, too," said the young man, forgetting his absorption at
the mention of a great name.
"He brought me into his room, which was bright with windows and a fire.
He bade me tell my story, and while I spoke never once did his eyes
desert me. When I had ended he rose and walked up and down. Then he
took from a chest a cloak of blue and gold and draped it round me.
'Stand upon that throne, Madonna,' said he, 'and I will put an infant
in your arms that shall live down all the ages.' And he painted me. So
with the child at my breast, I myself had passed into the picture and
found contentment there.
"When it was finished the great ones of many cities came to look upon
it, and the story of how I came to be painted went from mouth to mouth.
Among those who were there was he who had taken me from the nunnery,
and, seeing me in perfect happiness, a fury was born in him.
"I was hidden behind a hanging and watched the black anger rising up
and knotting his brow into ugly lines. He bought the canvas, and his
servants carried it away.
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