In the inner chamber, which was the artist's sanctum, were only the
Veronese and his brother Benedetto at work; his brother, who was
architect and sculptor too, was putting in the background of an
elaborate palace in a fine Venetian group upon which Paolo worked when
not occupied with his Madonna; and a favorite pupil, the young nobleman
Marcantonio Giustiniani, was in attendance upon the master. The lovely
girlish face, of a spiritual type rare in Venice, seemed to the young
patrician more beautiful than that of any of the noble, smiling ladies
who were waiting to be won by him, and in those hours of blissful
service he, too, made a study--crude and inartistic.

"Thy hand hath yet to learn its cunning," the master said, as in much
confusion, one morning when they were quite alone, his pupil revealed
his roughly executed head; "yet thou hast painted the soul! The heart
hath done it, Signorino mio, for thou art not yet an artist. There is no
other lady for Marcantonio Giustiniani; yet she comes not of a noble
house."

"She makes it noble!" cried the young fellow, flushing hotly, "for she
is like her face."

"Ay, for me and thee she is noble," said the Veronese compassionately,
for he loved the boy. "But for the noble Senator, thy father--of the
Council of the Ten--he will not find this maiden's name in the 'Libro
d'Oro.' I am sorry for thee."

"Master!" cried Marcantonio imploringly, "art thou with me?"

"Verily, but I can do naught for thee."