Giorgione laughed harshly. "Fled as a bird," he said gayly, "a bird that
was snared." He hummed a few bars of the song and stopped, his gaze
fixed on vacancy. A great shudder broke through him, and he buried his
face in his hands. There was no movement but the heave of his shoulders,
and no sound. The light upon the floor danced in the stillness.
Titian's eyes rested on it, perplexed. He crossed the room swiftly and
touched a bell. He gave an order and waited with his hand on his
friend's shoulder till the servant returned.
"Drink this," he said firmly, bending over him. He was holding a long,
slender glass to his lips.
The man quaffed it--slowly at first, then eagerly. "Yes, that is good!"
he said as he drained the glass. "I tremble here." He laid his hand on
his heart. "And my hand is strange." He smiled--a wan, wintry smile--and
looked at his friend with searching eyes.
"Where have they gone?" he demanded.