picture; Hans Makart, friend to Philip Rondelet, having painted the man as he was, with that superficial resemblance to the Master which at a second glance was almost lost. The beauty, the gentleness, the love, are all there; but the power which raises these elements to achieve the salvation of man is lacking.
It is already dark on the stairway, though the last sunbeam is resting for a moment on the golden cross of the cathedral over the way. A sound of stumbling in the passage causes Rondelet to glance rather nervously towards the door. He is not in the mood for visitors, if we may judge from the impatient sigh which escapes him. The sound of voices in altercation reaches him, a silence follows, and from an inner door his black servant enters the apartment.
"Well, Hero?"
"A gentleman to speak with you, sar."
"Say that I am not at home."
"I did, Marse Philip; but he says he knows yer are."
"Tell the gentleman that you have searched the extensive apartment, and that I positively am not to be found."
"Very good, sar."
Hero disappeared. Rondelet listened. There was the sound of a dispute, then a scuffle in the passage, a noise as of a person falling heavily
