s, and hands that were fine and
pointed like a woman's. He answered all questions easily, telling each
what part he was to play in the triumphal procession of Paulus AEmilius
that was to dazzle the good people of Florence on the morrow. He had
become chief favorite in the little court of young people that the
Medici loved to have about him, and his remarkable talent for detail had
made him the leader in all entertainments.

The boy Michael listened for a time to the flowing words of young
Granacci, then rose and wandered to where some stone-masons had lately
been at work. He stopped in front of a block of marble that was
gradually taking the form of the mask of a faun.

Near the block stood an antique mask, a garden ornament, and this the
boy studied for a few moments before he picked up one of the mason's
deserted tools and began to cut the stone himself.

The gay chatter under the poplars went on, but the boy with the chisel,
lost in thought, his heavy brows bent into a bow, chipped and cut,
forgetful of everything else. A half hour passed, and a long shadow fell
across the marble. Michael looked up to see his patron, Lorenzo,
standing beside him. The boy glanced from the fine, keen face of the
Medici to the marble mask of the old faun in front of him.

"Well, sirrah," said Lorenzo, half seriously, half in jest, "what wilt
thou be up to next?"

"Jacopo, one of the builders, gave me a stone," answered the boy, "and
told me I might do what I would with it. Yonder is my copy, the old
figure there."

"But," said Lorenzo, critically, "your faun is old, and yet you have
given him all his teeth; you should have known in a face as aged as that
some of the teeth are wanting."

"True," said the young sculptor, and taking his chisel, with a few
strokes he made such a gap in the mouth as no master could have
improved.

The Medici watched, and when the change was made, broke into laughter.
"Right, boy!" he cried. "'Tis perfect; Praxiteles himself could not have
bettered that!" Then, with a quizzical smile, he looked the youth over.
"I knew thou wert a painter; and now a sculptor; what will thy clever
hand be doing next?"

"Bearing arms in your worship's cause, an' the saints be good!"
exclaimed the boy, his deep eyes, full of admiration, on his patron's
face.

"Ah," said Lorenzo, "so? Well, perhaps the day will come. Florence is
like a rose-bed, but I cannot cure the city as I would of thorns." He
fell into thought,