Murillo, having, with a gesture of the hand, imposed silence on his pupils, who could hardly restrain themselves from giving way to their admiration, approached Sebastian, and concealing his emotion, said, in a cold and severe tone, while he looked alternately from the beautiful head of the virgin to the terrified slave, who stood like a statue before him, “Who is your master, Sebastian?” “You,” replied the boy, in a voice scarcely audible. “I mean your drawing-master,” said Murillo. “You, Senor,” again replied the trembling slave. “It cannot be; I never gave you lessons,” said the astonished painter. “But you gave them to others, and I listened to them,” rejoined the boy, emboldened by the kindness of his master. “And you have done better than listen--you have profited by them,” exclaimed Murillo, unable longer to conceal his admiration. “Gentlemen, does this boy merit punishment, or reward?” At the word punishment, Sebastian’s heart beat quick; the word reward gave him a little courage; but, fearing that his ears deceived him, he looked with timid and imploring eyes towards his master. “A reward, Senor!” cried the pupils, in a breath. “That is well; but what shall it be?” Sebastian began to breathe. “Ten ducats, at least,” said Mendez. “Fifteen,” cried Ferdinand. “No,” said Gonzalo; “a beautiful new dress for the next holiday.” “Speak, Sebastian,” said Murillo, looking at his slave, whom none of these rewards seemed to move; “are these things not to your taste? Tell me what you wish for. I am so much pleased with your beautiful composition, that I will grant any request you may make. Speak, then; do not be afraid.” “Oh, master, if I dared--” and Sebastian, clasping his hands, fell at the feet of his master. It was easy to read in the half-opened lips of the boy and his sparkling eyes some devouring thoughts within, which timidity prevented him from uttering. With the view of encouraging him, each of the pupils suggested some favor for him to demand. “Ask gold, Sebastian.” “Ask rich dresses, Sebastian.” “Ask to be received as a pupil, Sebastian.” A faint smile passed over the countenance of the slave at the last words, but he hung down his head and remained silent. “Ask for the best place in the studio,” said Gonzalo, who, from being the last pupil, had the worst light for his easel. “Come, take courage,” said Murillo gaily. “The master is so kind to-day,” said Ferdinand, “that I would risk something. Ask your _freedom_, Sebastian.” At these words Sebastian uttered a cry of anguish, and raising his eyes to his master, he exclaimed, in a voice choked with sobs, “The freedom of my father! the freedom of my father!” “And thine, also,” said Murillo, who, no longer able to conceal his emotion, threw his arms around Sebastian, and pressed him to his breast.