Old Buonarotti was quietly breakfasting in his room, which he had scarcely left since he had lost his son, when loud and repeated knocking at the door nearly drove it from its hinges. The Governor hastened to open it himself, but drew back at the sight of Michael Angelo, whom he did not immediately recognize. Pale, breathless, his head bare, his dress in disorder, covered with dust and plaster, the boy made a spring from the door to throw himself into his father’s arms. “Begone!” cried the Governor, trembling with passion. “Father, father, hear me, I implore, before you thus drive me from you. Listen to me but for one moment.” “You would then force me to curse you.” “I come from the palace.” “I neither wish to know whence you come, or what you do. I had once a son called Michael Angelo. He was to have been (at least, I hoped so) the glory, the support of my family, the joy, the comfort of my old age, but I have lost this ungrateful and disobedient son--thank God, he is no longer here, I sold him to the sculptor Ghirlandajo for eighteen florins.” “For my mother’s sake, hear me! behold me at your feet.” “Back to your mason’s, that is your place.” “My place!” said Michael Angelo, rising proudly from his knees, “_my_ place is in the apartment of princes; my place is amongst the first artists of Florence; my place is at the table of Lorenzo the Magnificent.” “My God, my God, he is mad!” exclaimed the poor father, passing from rage to terror. “But follow me, father, follow me, and you will see that the great Lorenzo has taken me by the hand, that he has placed me in his palace, that he expects you, that he offers you an employment, according to your choice.” The old Buonarotti was perfectly upset; he held his head between his hands, and asked of himself which had lost his reason, his son or himself. Michael Angelo not allowing him farther time for reflection, dragged him by force to the palace of the great Medicis. The Governor believed himself to be in a dream. No guard forbade their approach, and the courtiers drew respectfully back to give them passage. At the door of the Prince’s closet, a page raised the hanging curtain, and the old Buonarotti stood with his son in the presence of the Medicis. “Sir,” said the Prince, coming forward and courteously addressing him, “I have been the cause of disturbing you, in order to ask your leave that I may retain about me a son of whom you may be justly proud, and who bids fair to become the first artist of his time. My house shall be his home, and his salary you will yourself name. “In return, I make you only one request; your son has probably already told you what. It is that you ask of me any appointment most suitable to your taste and habits. It is granted beforehand.” “My son,” replied the agitated father, endeavouring to master his emotion, “will, I think, be paid beyond his deserts, if he receives five ducats monthly.” “And for yourself, Sir?”