Can you not fancy the wonder, the rapture, the questions, the praise, that followed on the discovery of the child artist? The Duke felt his eyes wet, and his heart swell. He took a gold chain from his own neck and threw it over Raphael’s shoulders.
“There is your first reward,” he said. “You shall have many, O wondrous child, and you shall live when we who stand here are dust!”
Raphael, with winning grace, kissed the Duke’s hand, and then turned to his own father.
“Is it true that I have won the prize?”
“Quite true, my child,” said Sanzio, with tremulous voice.
Raphael looked up at Master Benedetto and gently said, “Then I claim the hand of Pacifica.”
“Dear and marvellous child,” murmured Benedetto, “you are only jesting, I know; but tell me in truth what you would have. I can deny you nothing; you are my master.”
“I am your pupil,” said Raphael, with sweet simplicity. “Had you not taught me the secret of your colors, I could have done nothing. Now, dear Master, and you, my lord Duke, I pray you hear me. By the terms of this contest I have won the hand of Pacifica and a partnership with Master Benedetto. I take these rights, and I give them over to my dear friend, Luca, who is the truest man in all the world, and who loves Pacifica as no other can do.”
Signor Benedetto stood mute and agitated. Luca, pale as ashes, had sprung forward and dropped on his knees.
“Listen to the voice of an angel, my good Benedetto,” said the Duke.