He felt the innate consciousness of having done it before, and of having done it better.
And now the wonderful masterpiece of his earlier years stood before him--the tall and massive ebony cross, bearing the marvellous figure of the dead Saviour.

A ray of sunlight fell through the grated window upon the dying head, illuminating the points of the thorns in the crown, the falling locks of hair, the tortured hands, and casting a shadow of death beneath the half-closed eyes.
For several minutes Marzio sat motionless on his stool, realising the whole strength and beauty of what he had done ten years before.

Then he wanted to get a better view of it.

It was not high enough above him, for it was meant to stand upon an altar.

He could not see the face.