Even if you would allow it to pass as mine, I could not accept
such a thing; it would be a fraud, a shame: not even to win
Pacifica could I consent."
"Be not so hasty, good friend," said Raffaelle. "Wait just a
little longer yet and see. I have my own idea. Do trust in me."
"Heaven speaks in you, that I believe," said Luca, humbly.
Raffaelle answered not, but ran downstairs, and, passing Pacifica,
threw his arms about her in more than his usual affectionate
caresses.
"Pacifica, be of good heart," he murmured, and would not be
questioned, but ran homeward to his mother.
"Can it be that Luca has done well," thought Pacifica; but she
feared the child's wishes had outrun his wisdom. He could not be
any judge, a child of seven years, even though he were the son of
that good and honest painter and poet, Giovanni Sanzio.
The next morning was midsummer day. Now, the pottery was all to be
placed on this forenoon in the bottega of Signor Benedetto; and
the Duke Guidobaldo was then to come and make his choice from
amidst them; and the master-potter, a little because he was a
courtier, and more because he liked to affect a mighty indifference
and to show he had no favoritism, had declared that he would not
himself see the competing works of art until the eyes of the Lord
of Montefeltro also fell upon them.
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