"He was roused by a hand upon his shoulder."
He sprang up, startled beyond speech by the touch, for he had believed himself alone with the silence and the sheep.
Before him stood a man in the robes of a scholar. His manner was stately, his face pale and serious. He was gazing intently downward, not upon the little Tuscan shepherd, but at Beni's picture upon the stone.
"Boy, where did you learn to draw?" he exclaimed in a voice of strong excitement.
"Learn to draw?" queried Giotto wonderingly. "Nowhere, sir. I haven't learned."
"Do you mean me to believe that you have had no teacher, no one to tell you how to use your pencil?" The speaker searched the boy's face earnestly, almost fiercely, in his desire to know whether the child spoke the truth.
Giotto, innocent of all but the facts of his simple experience, replied sadly, "My father is too poor to pay for lessons."
"Then God Himself has taught you!" declared the stranger, hoarse with agitation. "What is your name?"
"Giotto, sir."
"I am Cimabue, Giotto."