"Do you know, gentlemen," said Isturitz, as he glanced at the painting, "that the remarks of Sebastian are extremely just, and much to the point? Who knows but that from grinding the colors he may one day astonish us by showing he knows one from another?"
It was night, and the studio of Murillo, the most celebrated painter in Seville, was now as silent as the grave. A single lamp burned upon a marble table, and a young mulatto boy, whose eyes sparkled like diamonds, leaned against an easel. Immovable and still, he was so deeply absorbed in his meditations that the door of the studio was opened by one who several times called him by name, and who, on receiving no answer, approached and touched him. Sebastian raised his eyes, which rested on a tall and handsome negro.
"Why do you come here, father?" he asked, in a melancholy tone.
"To keep you company, Sebastian."
"There is no need, father; I can watch alone."
"But what if the Zombi should come?"
"I do not fear him," replied the boy, with a sad smile.
"He may carry you away, and then the poor negro Gomez will have no one to console him in his slavery."
"Oh, how sad! how dreadful it is to be a slave!" exclaimed the boy, weeping bitterly.