"It is the will of God," replied the negro, with an air of resignation.
"God!" ejaculated Sebastian, as he raised his eyes to the dome of the studio, through which the stars glittered—"God! I pray constantly to Him, my father (and He will one day listen to me), that we may no longer be slaves. But go to bed, father; go, go, and I shall go to mine there in that corner, and I shall soon fall asleep. Good-night, father, good-night."
"Good-night, my son;" and having kissed the boy, the negro retired.
The moment Sebastian found himself alone he uttered an exclamation of joy. Then suddenly checking himself, he said: "Twenty-five lashes to-morrow if I do not tell who sketched these figures, and perhaps more if I do. Oh, my God, come to my aid!" and the little mulatto threw himself upon the mat which served him for a bed, where he soon fell fast asleep.
Sebastian awoke at daybreak; it was only three o'clock. "Courage, courage, Sebastian," he exclaimed, as he shook himself awake; "three hours are thine—only three hours; then profit by them; the rest belong to thy master. Slave! Let me at least be my own master for three short hours. To begin, these figures must be effaced," and seizing a brush, he approached the Virgin, which, viewed by the soft light of morning, appeared more beautiful than ever.
"Efface this!" he exclaimed—"efface this! No; I will die first. Efface this—they dare not—neither dare I. No—that head—breathes—speaks; it seems as if her blood would flow if I should offer to efface it, and that I should be her murderer. No, no, no; rather let me finish it."
Scarcely had he uttered these words, when, seizing a palette, he seated himself at the easel, and was soon totally absorbed in his occupation. Hour after hour passed unheeded by Sebastian, who was too much engrossed by the beautiful creation of his pencil, which seemed bursting into life, to mark the flight of time.
But who can describe the horror and consternation of the unhappy slave, when, on suddenly turning round, he beheld all the pupils, with his master at their head, standing beside him!
Sebastian never once dreamed of justifying himself, and, with his palette in one hand and his brushes in the other, he hung down his head, awaiting in silence the punishment he believed that he justly merited.
Murillo having, with a gesture of the hand, imposed silence on his pupils, and concealing his emotion, said in a cold and severe tone, while he looked alternately from the beautiful picture to the terrified slave,