"Not—not Cimabue, the painter of Florence!" ejaculated the lad, falling back a step, unable to believe that he who stood before him was in reality the hero of his boyish dreams.
"Yes," affirmed the man gravely, "and if you will go with me to Florence, child, I will make of you so great a painter that even the name of Cimabue will dwindle before the name of Giotto."
Down upon one bare knee fell the boy, and grasping the master's hand in both of his, he cried,—
"Oh, teach me to paint pictures, great and beautiful pictures, and I will go with you anywhere—" He broke off suddenly and rose,—"if father will give me leave," he concluded quietly.
"Oho!" and the artist smiled curiously. "If your father forbade, you would not go with me, even though you might become a great painter?"
"No," said Giotto slowly, casting down his eyes, "even though I might become a great painter."
"Most good, most good," burst out the master exultantly; "a true heart should ever direct a painter's hand, and yours is true indeed, Giotto. Come, let us go to him."
Down the steep they hastened, the boy running on before to point the way, the master following with the look of one who has found a diamond in the dust at his feet; and when they came before Giotto's father with their strange request, and the Tuscan peasant learned what fortune had befallen his child, with the promised teaching and protection of Cimabue the renowned, he bared his head, waved his hand toward Florence, and said to the painter solemnly,—
"Take him, master, and teach him the cunning of your brush, the magic of your colors; tell him the secret of your art and the mystery of your fame, but let him not forget his home, nor his mountains, nor his God."
And what became of the little Tuscan shepherd?