"My love!" he said aloud,--then listened--as though waiting for an
answer. And still he stared persistently at the glorious figure of
the Christ, till the Divine eyes seemed to flash the fire of an
everlasting wrath upon his treacherous soul.
"To destroy the work? Or claim it?" he mused, "Either would be easy!
That is, if she were dead!--." he paused,--amazed at his own
thought. "If she were dead, it would be easy to swear _I_ had
painted the picture! If she were dead!" Again he listened. "Angela!"
he whispered.
A door banging in the house startled him from his semi-stupor. His
eyes wandered from the picture to the inanimate form lying at his
feet.
"Sweet Angela!" he said, a cold smile flickering on his lips, "You
were always unselfish! You wished me to be the greatest artist of my
time!--and perhaps I shall be!--now YOU are dead! My love!"
A sudden clatter of horses' hoofs and rolling wheels wakened hollow
echoes from the great stone courtyard below. It was the Cardinal
returning from the Vatican. A panic seized him--his teeth chattered
as with icy cold. He sprang swiftly to the door by which Angela had
admitted him, and opened it cautiously,--then slinking out, locked
it carefully behind him, took the key,--and fled.
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