“Ten ducats, at least,” said Mendez.
“Fifteen,” cried Ferdinand.
“No,” said Gonzalo; “a beautiful new dress for the next holiday.”
“Speak, Sebastian,” said Murillo, looking at his slave, whom none of these rewards seemed to move; “are these things not to your taste? Tell me what you wish for. I am so much pleased with your beautiful composition, that I will grant any request you may make. Speak, then; do not be afraid.”
“Oh, master, if I dared—” and Sebastian, clasping his hands, fell at the feet of his master. It was easy to read in the half-opened lips of the boy and his sparkling eyes some devouring thoughts within, which timidity prevented him from uttering.
With the view of encouraging him, each of the pupils suggested some favor for him to demand.
“Ask gold, Sebastian.”
“Ask rich dresses, Sebastian.”
“Ask to be received as a pupil, Sebastian.”
A faint smile passed over the countenance of the slave at the last words, but he hung down his head and remained silent.