"
Tchernoff was overpowered by the intensity of his dramatic vision.
Springing from his seat, he paced up and down with great strides; but
his picture of the fourfold catastrophe revealed by the gloomy poet's
trance, seemed to him very weak indeed. A great painter had given
corporeal form to these terrible dreams.
"I have a book," he murmured, "a rare book." . . .
And suddenly he left the studio and went to his own quarters. He wanted
to bring the book to show to his friends. Argensola accompanied him, and
they returned in a few minutes with the volume, leaving the doors open
behind them, so as to make a stronger current of air among the hollows
of the facades and the interior patio.
Tchernoff placed his precious book under the light. It was a volume
printed in 1511, with Latin text and engravings. Desnoyers read the
title, "The Apocalypse Illustrated." The engravings were by Albert
Durer, a youthful effort, when the master was only twenty-seven years
old. The three were fascinated by the picture portraying the wild career
of the Apocalyptic horsemen. The quadruple scourge, on fantastic mounts,
seemed to be precipitating itself with a realistic sweep, crushing
panic-stricken humanity.
Suddenly something happened which startled the three men from their
contemplative admiration--something unusual, indefinable, a dreadful
sound which seemed to enter directly into their brains without passing
through their ears--a clutch at the heart.
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