He stalked about the room with the thing in his hands, in a sort of wild frenzy of execution.

His features grew ashy pale, and his smooth white hair stood out wildly from his head.

He looked, then, more than a hundred years old, and there was a sadness and a horror about him that would have made the stones cry aloud for pity.

I could not believe he was the same man.

At last he was tired, and stopped.
"You are a great artist, baron," I said.