"Then the master knew best," thought Lampblack.
Never would he adorn a palace or be adored upon an altar. His high
hopes were all dead, like last year's leaves. The colors in the
studio had all the glories of the world, but he was of use in it,
after all: he could save these little lives. He was poor and
despised, bruised by stones and drenched by storms; yet was he
content, nailed there upon his tree, for he had not been made
quite in vain.
The sunset poured its red and golden splendors through the
darkness of the boughs, and the birds sang all together, shouting
for joy and praising God.
THE CHILD OF URBINO
It was in the year of grace 1490, in the reign of Guidobaldo, Lord
of Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino,--the year, by the way, of the
birth of that most illustrious and gracious lady, Vittoria
Colonna.
It was in the spring of the year, in that mountain eyrie beloved
of the Muses and coveted of the Borgia, that a little boy stood
looking out of a grated casement into the calm, sunshiny day. He
was a pretty boy, with hazel eyes, and fair hair cut straight
above his brows; he wore a little blue tunic with some embroidery
about the throat of it, and had in his hand a little round flat
cap of the same color. He was sad of heart this merry morning, for
a dear friend of his, a friend ten years older than himself, had
gone the night before on a journey over the mountains to Maestro
Francesco at Bologna, there to be bound apprentice to that gentle
artist.
Pages:
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111