A large bow-window admitted the free light of heaven and at the same time afforded a fine view of the Palatine Hill.

Leaning for a moment against the window-sill, in mute admiration of the prospect before her, the princess thought how happy a woman might be with this view to greet her eyes every day, while a husband who worshipped her and was worshipped by her worked at her side--or, rather, not _worked_, but _created_.

It was a picture far more alluring than any that the Cagliari palace had to offer.
"Pst!" the cobbler interrupted her musing; "come and let me show you the portrait." So saying, he conducted her to an easel on which rested a veiled picture, which he uncovered with an air of pride and satisfaction.
The feeling of rapture that took possession of Blanka at sight of her own portrait was owing, not to the fact that it was her likeness,--radiant though that likeness was with youth and beauty and all the charm of an ideal creation,--but to the thought that _he_ had painted it.
"The price is thirty-three million, three hundred and thirty-three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three _scudi_, and not a _soldo_ less!" announced the shoemaker, with a broad smile.

Then he laid his fingers on his lips.

"Pst! Not a word! I know all.