“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.”

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.

FINDELKIND

There was a little boy, a year or two ago, who lived under the shadow of Martinswand.  Most people know, I should suppose, that the Martinswand is that mountain in the Oberinnthal where, several centuries past, brave Kaiser Max lost his footing as he stalked the chamois, and fell upon a ledge of rock, and stayed there, in mortal peril, for thirty hours, till he was rescued by the strength and agility of a Tyrol hunter—­an angel in the guise of a hunter, as the chronicles of the time prefer to say.

The Martinswand is a grand mountain, being one of the spurs of the greater Sonnstein, and rises precipitously, looming, massive and lofty, like a very fortress for giants, where it stands right across that road which, if you follow it long enough, takes you through Zell to Landeck,—­old, picturesque, poetic Landeck, where Frederick of the Empty Pockets rhymed his sorrows in ballads to his people,—­and so on by Bludenz into Switzerland itself, by as noble a highway