“We are.”

“Enough.”

The duke then assuming his seat of state, directed the artist to approach him.  First complimenting him as a son of America, the glorious Republic of the West, and on his extraordinary genius-as he was pleased to express himself-he awarded him the rich prize prepared for the occasion, at the same time offering him a sum for the painting which would have rendered a man of moderate wishes independent for life.

“The prize, your excellenza,” said Carlton, “I gladly accept as a token of your liberality in advancing the interests of the noble art I follow.  But as it regards the high price you have set upon my humble effort, I can only say, that I had designed it from the first as a present for your excellenza, and only ask in return, that it may find a place in your private and unrivalled collection-if, indeed, it shall be deemed worthy of that honor.”

“Signor Americano,” said the duke, “it shall share the Tribune with our best pictures, and shall be prized alike with them.”

Now the Tribune, so called, was a small apartment of the duke’s gallery devoted to the gems of his collection, and so named after a similar appropriation in the departments of the grand gallery of Florence.  The hanging of a picture in this place was of itself alone the highest compliment the author could receive through his production; and so did Carlton understand and appreciate the honor thus designed him, which also was the more welcome, being entirely unexpected.

He could hardly realize that his humble effort should be deemed worthy of such preferment, or that it could possibly possess such merit as to warrant its being placed side by side with those of the immortal masters, whose humblest follower he had ever deemed himself.  No wonder his heart beat now so quickly, and he breathed so fast; the goal of his ambition was before him, and almost within his grasp.  It seemed only necessary for him to reach out his hand and pluck the garland of success and of renown.  The pause that had intervened here was but for a single moment of time, when it was once more broken by the duke himself, who spoke, as he felt, most kindly and in encouraging tones.

“Signor Americano,” said the duke, “thy habiliments are those of one whose purse is but narrowly lined, and we are at a loss to account for this willingness to part with that which has cost thee labor of months, and in which thou hast been so eminently successful.  We do much crave the picture, but will nevertheless forego its possession unless it can be had at our own valuation.”

“As the picture was painted for your excellenza, and you design for it such honor, I could wish its free acceptance; but it must be yours on any terms,” said Carlton.

The assembly then dispersed, and our hero received a purse of gold for his picture, exceeding in amount his wildest expectations of what he might earn by his art in years of industry and frugality.