"It is true I have won my lord duke's prize?"

"Quite true, my angel!" said Giovanni Sanzio, with tremulous
voice.

Raffaelle looked up at Maestro Benedetto.

"Then I claim the hand of Pacifica!"

There was a smile on all the faces round, even on the darker
countenances of the vanquished painters.

"Oh, would indeed you were of age to be my son by marriage, as you
are the son of my heart!" murmured Signor Benedetto. "Dear and
marvelous child, you are but jesting, I know. Tell me what it is
indeed that you would have. I could deny you nothing; and truly it
is you who are my master."

"I am your pupil," said Raffaelle, with that pretty serious smile
of his, his little fingers playing with the ducal jewel. "I could
never have painted that majolica yonder had you not taught me the
secrets and management of your colors. Now, dear maestro mine, and
you, O my lord duke, do hear me! I by the terms of the contest
have won the hand of Pacifica and the right of association with
Messer Ronconi. I take these rights and I give them over to my
dear friend Luca of Fano, because he is the honestest man in all
the world, and does honor Signor Benedetto and love Pacifica as no
other can do so well, and Pacifica loves him, and my lord duke
will say that thus all will be well."