The lines were in Zara's handwriting, and ran as follows: "To my beloved Casimir--my brother, my friend, my guide and teacher, to whom I owe the supreme happiness of my life in this world and the next--let this poor figure of his grateful Zara be a memento of happy days that are gone, only to be renewed with redoubled happiness hereafter." I handed back the paper silently, with tears in my eyes, and we turned our attention to the colossal figure we had come to destroy.

It stood at the extreme end of the studio, and was entirely hidden by white linen drapery.

Heliobas advanced, and by a sudden dexterous movement succeeded in drawing off the coverings with a single effort, and then we both fell back and gazed at the clay form disclosed in amazement.
What did it represent?
A man?
a god?
an angel?
or all three united in one vast figure?
It was an unfinished work.

The features of the face were undeclared, save the brow and eyes; and these were large, grand, and full of absolute wisdom and tranquil consciousness of power.

I could have gazed on this wonderful piece of Zara's handiwork for hours, but Heliobas called to the Armenian servants, who stood near the door awaiting orders, and commanded them to break it down.