“Then good night, my son;” and, having kissed the boy, the mulatto retired.
The moment Sebastian found himself alone, he uttered an exclamation of joy. Then, suddenly checking himself, he said, “Seventy-five lashes to-morrow if I do not tell who sketched these figures, and perhaps more if I do. O 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. Any other boy would probably have gone to sleep again; not so Sebastian, who had but three hours he could call his own.
“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. So begin; these figures must be effaced;” and, seizing a brush, he approached the virgin, which, viewed by the soft light of the morning dawn, 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—she breathes—she speaks—it seems as if her blood would flow if I should offer to efface it, and 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. “Another touch,” he exclaimed, “a soft shade here—now the mouth. Yes! there! it opens—those eyes—they pierce me through!—what a forehead!—what delicacy! Oh my beautiful—” and Sebastian forgot the hour, forgot he was a slave, forgot his dreaded punishment—all, all was obliterated from the soul of the youthful artist, who thought of nothing, saw nothing, but his beautiful picture.
But who can describe the horror and consternation of the unhappy slave, when, on suddenly turning round, he beheld all the pupils, with the master at their head, standing beside him.
Sebastian never once dreamt 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 he justly merited. For some moments a dead silence prevailed; for if Sebastian was confounded at being caught in the commission of such a flagrant crime, Murillo and his pupils were not less astonished at the discovery they had made.
Murillo, having, with a gesture of the hand, imposed silence on his pupils, who could hardly restrain themselves from giving way to their admiration, approached Sebastian, and concealing his emotion, said, in a cold and severe tone, while he looked alternately from the beautiful head of the virgin to the terrified slave, who stood like a statue before him,
“Who is your master, Sebastian?”