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And when the last word is written, I shall go to the Pinacoteca and stand again before the Morone fresco, and if the Miseratrix Virginum Regina still simpers at me, I shall take it as a sign and a token. I shall return to this marble cavern and make my final exit. It will be theatrically artistic that I vow and declare which no doubt will afford immense pleasure to the high gods in their gallery.
It is some two years since I stood for the second time in the Pinacoteca of Verona and sought to read my fate in the simpering countenance of Morone's Miseratrix Virginum Regina. I met what might have been expected by a person of any sense the self-same expression on the painted face as I had angrily found there two months before when I began to write the foregoing pages.
But nothing have I found save solitude. I stood to-day before the mutilated fresco of Morone, my rapture of six years ago, and hated it with unreasoning hatred. The Madonna belied the wreath-supported inscription above her head, "Miseratrix virginum Regina nostri miserere," and greeted me with a pitiless simper.
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