There was a slight movement perceptible among the group of artists at this moment, and Carlton, the young American, was seen making his way to the front of his companions, several of whom rebuked him for his forwardness in so doing.

“Why do you push forward, Carlton?”

“Nay, give way but a moment,” said our hero.

“What would you?”

“To speak to the duke.”

“Fie, man, don’t you see he’s busy now?”

“Give way but a moment,” was the reply.

“May it please you, excellenza,” said Carlton, stepping before the group of artists, and addressing the monarch in Italian, which he spoke like a native, “I am the humble author of the picture it has pleased you to compliment so highly.”

All eyes were turned upon the speaker, who stood forth from his companions with downcast eyes and burning cheeks, for well he knew that the eyes of all Florence, or rather its nobility, were resting upon him at that moment.  The countenances of his former companions evinced no emotions of resentment, as one might have expected who understood their former feelings toward the American.  No; they were too much filled with surprise to entertain any other feeling for the moment, and they looked at each other in the utmost amazement, scarcely believing their senses.

The eyes of the assembly were bent upon him, and in wonder, too, at the threadbare coat and emaciated countenance, which told but too plainly the tale of hunger and want he had suffered.  And so it was, as the reader has seen.  Carlton was too proud to make known his necessities, and he had suffered most incredibly from want.

Hardly had Carlton spoken in answer to the question of the duke, when there was a visible commotion among the high-born dames that surrounded his seat, and one was carried by the attendants from the apartment fainting.  It was the duke’s, ward, the Signora Florinda.  The surprise and delight which crowded itself upon her gentle sensibility, was too much for her to bear, and she sank insensible into the arms of those about her.

“What so strangely affected the Signora Florinda?” asked the duke.

“We know not, your highness,” replied one of her late companions.  “She seemed regarding this young artist at the moment when she was taken ill.”

“Singular.”

“Very, your highness.”

“Hasten after her, and return and let me know how she is.”

“Si, excellenza.”

“Say I will join her anon.”

“I will, excellenza.”

It was many minutes before the Grand Duke recovered from the surprise occasioned by the appearance of Carlton, and the confusion consequent upon the sudden illness of his ward; but at length he put the question inquiringly: 

“Americano?”

“Si, excellenza.”

“And this is the work of thy hands?”

“It is, excellenza.”

“It is a most masterly piece, by our lady,” said the duke, looking first upon the painting and then at Carlton, as if half in doubt as to the truth of the young American’s assertion.