"Guido was always a fortunate name for one of your art," replied the king, as he dismissed the count. "I have heard good of you. Have you brought with you the picture of which the count has spoken?"
"No, sire," said the painter; "a liberal connoisseur had bought it and taken it away, before the command of your majesty reached me."
"What a misfortune!" said the king condescendingly. "I am a patron of art, and desire to employ your brush."
"I am sorry," replied Guido, "that I have no specimen of my poor talent to show to your majesty. But I have brought with me a work which I hope will obtain your favor, sire. I was on my way to your court, and have Cremato's masterpiece to give to your majesty."
The king became pale at these words. He looked at the painter piercingly, but as he received the glance without restraint, questioned him further.
"Cremato! His last work? You, sir; perhaps his son?"
"His student, gracious sire! his student who buried him a few months ago at Naples, and promised the dying man to bring the picture to your majesty."
"Cremato dead!" sighed the king. "In him died a true artist, a peculiar but noble man. I have never inquired further concerning him. He was to me only a human being whom I could protect," added he slowly. "The last sign of his independence! You have brought it with you?"
"Yes, your majesty," replied Guido. "It stands in the anteroom. I hasten to bring it."
"Yet a word," began the king disturbedly to the artist. "The subject of the picture?"