“Wait just a little longer, my good friend, and trust me,” said Raphael.
The next morning was a midsummer day. Now, the pottery was all to be placed on a long table, and the Duke was then to come and make his choice from amidst them. A few privileged persons had been invited, among them the father of Raphael, who came with his little son clinging to his hand.
The young Duke and his court came riding down the street, and paused before the old stone house of the master potter. Bowing to the ground, Master Benedetto led the way, and the others followed into the workshop. In all there were ten competitors. The dishes and jars were arranged with a number attached to each—no name to any.
The Duke, doffing his plumed cap, walked down the long room and examined each production in its turn. With fair words he complimented Signor Benedetto on the brave show, and only before the work of poor Luca was he entirely silent. At last, before a vase and a dish that stood at the farthest end of the table, the Duke gave a sudden cry of wonder and delight.
“This is beyond all comparison,” said he, taking the great oval dish in his hands. “It is worth its weight in gold. I pray you, quick, name the artist.”
“It is marked number eleven, my lord,” answered the master potter, trembling with pleasure and surprise. “Ho, you who reply to that number, stand out and give your name.”
But no one moved. The young men looked at one another. Where was this nameless rival? There were but ten of themselves.
“Ho, there!” cried the master, becoming angry. “Can you not find a tongue? Who has wrought this wondrous work?”
Then the child loosened his little hand from his father’s hold and stepped forward, and stood before the master potter.
“I painted it,” he said, with a pleased smile; “I, Raphael.”