"Ay, for me and thee she is noble," said the Veronese compassionately,
for he loved the boy. "But for the noble Senator, thy father--of the
Council of the Ten--he will not find this maiden's name in the 'Libro
d'Oro.' I am sorry for thee."

"Master!" cried Marcantonio imploringly, "art thou with me?"

"Verily, but I can do naught for thee."

"Listen, then! One day the nobles shall find that name inscribed in the
'Libro d'Oro'; it shall be there, for mine shall suffice."

The master answered nothing, but bending over the sketch which his pupil
had made he caressed it, here and there, with loving touches of his
magic brush, while the young nobleman poured forth his vehement speech,
forgetting to watch the master's fingers.

"Once in the annals of the Republic there is noted such a marriage; a
daughter of Murano, of the house of Beroviero--nay, not so beautiful as
Marina--wedded with one of our noblest names; and the children, by
decree of the Senate, were written every one in the 'Libro d'Oro.'"

"_This_ have I done for thee!" said the master, moving away from the
sketch and disclosing it to the young fellow, who gazed at it in silent
amazement. "Only the eyes have I not touched," the Veronese explained;
"for thou hast made them more soulful than even unto me they seemed, and
thus have I read thy secret."

"Maestro mio!" cried Marcantonio at length, in ecstasy; "none among us
may learn the marvel of thine art!"

"I have but touched thy sketch with the power that mine art could give,"
the master answered, well pleased. "Yet it is thou who hast read the
secret of the face that was not revealed to me."

"We were speaking of the 'Libro d'Oro,'" the young patrician interrupted
eagerly.

"It may be so, I know not," the Veronese answered indifferently, for he
himself was not written in that noble chronicle. "My art deals little
with these cumbrous records of the Republic."

"Thou art wrong to scorn them, caro maestro, for in them is chronicled
the glory of Venice."

"The saying doeth honor--from a pupil to his master!" the artist burst
forth with his quick, uncontrollable temper. "The Tablets of Stone were
reserved for the highest dignity of the Law; and in that Sala dei Capi,
where at this moment sits Giustinian Giustiniani--one of the chosen
three of the Council of the Ten--my name is written largely with mine
own hand, as artists write their names, _above_ the heads of rulers for
all coming time to see! The _Avv