At last the stately goddess and her long-tailed companion stood triumphant in all the candour of marble not wholly spotless. The hour of unveiling it to the astonished gaze of Bertino and Marianna was the happiest that the ruler of Armando’s fate permitted him for many a day thereafter. The bitterness and crushing disillusion came on the day that he loaded the carved treasure on the donkey cart of Sebastiano the carrier, and followed Juno and the Peacock down the mountain pass to the haven of his sweet anticipation. “He has been saving up his Saint Peters,” said Michele the Cobbler to a group of mystified neighbours as the cart passed his shop. “See, he has a box full of them. I wonder how many saints one can cut out in a year. Ah, well, it was not thus that his uncle Daniello did, nor his father before him. Shall I tell you what I think, my friends? Well, I think that boy is going wrong.” “Ah, _si_,” was the unanimous voice. “May your success be great, Armando mine!” said Bertino when they parted at the first curve of the pass. “Perhaps against your return I shall have famous news from America. Who knows? Good fortune be with you. _Addio._” “The saints be with you to a safe return,” said Marianna. “_Addio_, and good fortune.” “_Addio, carissimi amici._” Sebastiano the carrier lifted the block from the wheel and the donkey moved on. Armando walked behind, keeping a watchful eye on the thing in the cart, which was in every shade of the term a reduced replica of Falguière’s inspiration. “You must be very careful, Sebastiano,” said he. “Never in your life have you had such a valuable load on your cart.” “Bah!” growled the driver. “Valuable! How many have you there? Are they all the same size? Do you mean to say that I never had a load as valuable as a boxful of Saint Peters? Oh, _bello_! Only last week did I haul a barrel of fine _barolo_ to the Inn of the Fat Calf. Ah, my dear, that is a wine. Wee-ah! wee-ah!--Go on, you lazy one. That donkey is too careful.” They reached their destination in Genoa without mishap. When the art dealer who had consented to look at it had bestowed on Armando’s work of a year a momentary survey, he turned to the sculptor, who stood hat in hand, and regarded him earnestly. “Who told you to do this, dear young man?” he asked, removing his eyeglasses. “Nobody, signore. It was my own idea.” The merchant turned to Juno with a new interest. “Not so bad as it might have been,” he shrugged, moving aside to view the figures in profile. “What is your name? Signor Corrini. Well--but, my dear young man, it will be a long time, perhaps years, before you are able to do work of this kind. Naturally, I could not permit it to remain in my place. What else have you done? Something smaller, I suppose.” Armando strove hard to keep them back, but the sobs choked him.