“Ten thousand ducats, indeed! Where do you suppose I can get so much?”
“Well, as for that, if you haven’t got the money, your friends must get it for you.”
“But my friends are not rich.”
“Ah, excuse me!” said the chief, smiling. “When one has a prince for a protector, he is always rich.”
“It is true that the prince is my patron; but he owes me nothing.”
“No matter if he don’t. He would not be deprived of such an artist as you for a paltry ten thousand ducats.”
“He pays me for my pictures; but he will not pay my ransom.”
“He must,” said the robber, emphatically; “so no more words. Ask your friends, if you prefer, or whoever you will; but bring me ten thousand ducats, and that within a month; otherwise you must die.”
As the chief uttered these words, he walked away, leaving Salvator in the middle of the ground which formed the camp.
During the short conversation two children came from one of the tents, being attracted by the noise. Their little blond heads, curiously turned towards the captive, their faces, tanned by the sun, but animated by the crimson of health and youth, and their picturesque costume had attracted the attention of the painter. When the chief had gone away, he approached them, and smiled. The children drew away abashed; then, reassured by the air of goodness which the young man wore, they came nearer, and permitted him to embrace them.