"Oh, aye!" cried Nathaniel.
The Frenchman dismounted near them with sparkling glances of inquiry. "See, LeMaury, this is young Master Everett, whom you have bewitched with your paint-pots. He would fain be an artist—de gustibus! Perhaps you have in him an apprentice for your return to France."
The artist looked sharply at Nathaniel. "Eh, so? Can young master draw? Doth he know aught of chiaroscuro?"
Nathaniel blushed at his ignorance and looked timidly at his protector.
"Nay, he knows naught of your painter's gibberish. Give him a crayon and a bit of white bark and see can he make my picture. I'll lean my head back and fold my hands to sleep."
In the long sunny quiet that followed, the old man really slipped away into a light doze, from which he was awakened by a loud shout from LeMaury. The French man had sprung upon Nathaniel and was kissing his cheeks, which were now crimson with excitement. "Oh, it is Giotto come back again. He shall be anything—Watteau."
Nathaniel broke away and ran toward the old man, his eyes blazing with hope.
"What does he mean?" he demanded.
"He means that you're to be a painter and naught else, though how a man can choose to daub paint when there are swords to be carried—well, well," he pulled himself painfully to his feet, wincing at gouty twinges, "I will go and see your father about"
