"At your service, master."
"A prince, then."
"Yes, a harlequin playing the prince."
"You know all the secrets of the art, eh?"
The Muranese made a mysterious gesture which seemed to call up all the deep ancestral knowledge of which he affirmed himself the last heir.
"Then, mistress, will you deign to accept it?"
La Foscarina had not spoken, fearing to trust her voice, but now all her affable grace rose above her sadness and accepted the gift while compensating the giver.
The vase held by the little bent man that had created it was like a miraculous flower blooming on a twisted shrub. It was a thing of beauty, mysterious as natural things are mysterious; it held the life of a human breath in its hollow; its transparence equaled that of sky and water; its purple rim was like a floating seaweed; no one could have told the reason why it was so beautiful; and its value was either slight or beyond price, according to the eyes that looked at it.
La Foscarina chose to take it with her, without having it packed, as one carries a flower.