So with the grave, innocent audacity of a child he spoke--this
seven-year-old painter who was greater than any there.

Signor Benedetto stood mute, sombre, agitated. Luca had sprung
forward and dropped on one knee; he was as pale as ashes.
Raffaelle looked at him with a smile.

"My lord duke," he said, with his little gentle smile, "you have
chosen my work; defend me in my rights."

"Listen to the voice of an angel, my good Benedetto; heaven speaks
by him," said Guidobaldo, gravely, laying his hand on the arm of
his master-potter.

Harsh Signor Benedetto burst into tears.

"I can refuse him nothing," he said, with a sob. "He will give
such glory unto Urbino as never the world hath seen!"

"And call down this fair Pacifica whom Raffaelle has won," said
the sovereign of the duchy, "and I will give her myself as her
dower as many gold pieces as we can cram into this famous vase. An
honest youth who loves her and whom she loves--what better can you
do, Benedetto? Young man, rise up and be happy. An angel has
descended on earth this day for you."

But Luca heard not; he was still kneeling at the feet of
Raffaelle, where the world has knelt ever since.