[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D. W. ]

A WORD, ONLY A WORD

By Georg Ebers

Volume 3. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

For the first time in his life Ulrich had witnessed the death of a humanbeing. 

How often he had laughed at the fool, or thought his words absurd andwicked;--but the dead man inspired him with respect, and the thought ofthe old jester's corpse exerted a far deeper and more lasting influenceupon him, than his father's supposed death. Hitherto he had only beenable to imagine him as he had looked in life, but now the vision of himstretched at full length, stark and pale like the dead Pellicanus, oftenrose before his mind. 

The artist was a silent man, and understood how to think and speak inlines and colors, better than in words. He only became eloquent andanimated, when the conversation turned upon subjects connected with hisart. 

At Toulouse he purchased three new horses, and engaged the same number ofFrench servants, then went to a jeweller and bought many articles. Atthe inn he put the chains and rings he had obtained, into pretty littleboxes, and wrote on them in neat Gothic characters with special care:"Helena, Anna, Minerva, Europa and Lucia;" one name on each. 

Ulrich watched him and remarked that those were not his children's names. 

Moor looked up, and answered smiling: "These are only young artists, sixsisters, each one of whom is as dear to me as if she were my owndaughter. I hope we shall find them in Madrid, one of them, Sophonisba, at any rate. "

"But there are only five boxes, " observed the boy, "and you haven'twritten Sophonisba on any of them. "

"She is to have something better, " replied his patron smiling. "Myportrait, which I began to paint yesterday, will be finished here. Handme the mirror, the maul-stick, and the colors. "

The picture was a superb likeness, absolutely faultless. The pure browcurved in lofty arches at the temples, the small eyes looked as clear andbright as they did in the mirror, the firm mouth shaded by a thinmoustache, seemed as if it were just parting to utter a friendly word. The close-shaven beard on the cheeks and chin rested closely upon thewhite ruff, which seemed to have just come from under the laundresses'smoothing-iron. 

How rapidly and firmly the master guided his brush! And Sophonisba, whomMoor distinguished by such a gift, how was he to imagine her? The otherfive sisters too! For their sakes he first anticipated with pleasure thearrival at Madrid. 

In Bayonne the artist left the baggage-wagon behind. His luggage was puton mules, and when the party of travellers started, it formed an imposingcaravan. 

Ulrich expressed his surprise at such expenditure, and Moor answeredkindly: "Pellicanus says: 'Among fools one must be a fool. ' We enterSpain as the king's guests, and courtiers have weak eyes, and only noticepeople who give themselves airs. "

At Fuenterrabia, the first Spanish city they reached, the artist receivedmany honors, and a splendid troop of cavalry escorted him thence toMadrid. 

Moor came as a guest to King Philip's capital for the third time, and wasreceived there with all the tokens of respect usually paid only to greatnoblemen. 

His old quarters in the treasury of the Alcazar, the palace of the kingsof Castile, were again assigned to him. They consisted of a studio andsuite of apartments, which by the monarch's special command, had beenfitted up for him with royal magnificence. 

Ulrich could not control his amazement. How poor and petty everythingthat a short time before, at Castle Rappolstein, had awakened his wonderand admiration now appeared. 

During the first few days the artist's reception-room resembled a bee-hive; for aristocratic men and women, civil and ecclesiasticaldignitaries passed in and out, pages and lackeys brought flowers, basketsof fruits, and other gifts. Every one attached to the court knew in whathigh favor the artist was held by His Majesty, and therefore hastened towin his good-will by attentions and presents. Every hour there wassomething new and astonishing to be seen, but the artist himself mostawakened the boy's surprise. 

The unassuming man, who on the journey had associated as familiarly withthe poor invalids he had picked up by the wayside, the tavern-keepers, and soldiers of his escort, as if he were one of themselves, now seemed avery different person. True, he still dressed in black, but instead ofcloth and silk, he wore velvet and satin, while two gold chains glitteredbeneath his ruff. He treated the greatest nobles as if he were doingthem a favor by receiving them, and he himself were a person ofunapproachable rank. 

On the first day Philip and his queen Isabella of Valois, had sent forhim and adorned him with a costly new chain. 

On this occasion Ulrich saw the king. Dressed as a page he followedMoor, carrying the picture the latter intended for a gift to his royalhost. 

At the time of their entrance into the great reception-hall, the monarchwas sitting motionless, gazing into vacancy, as if all the personsgathered around him had no existence for him. His head was thrown farback, pressing down the stiff ruff, on which it seemed to rest as if itwere a platter. The fair-haired man's well-cut features wore the rigid, lifeless expression of a mask. The mouth and nostrils were slightlycontracted, as if they shrank from breathing the same air with otherhuman beings. 

The monarch's face remained unmoved, while receiving the Pope's legatesand the ambassadors from the republic of Venice. When Moor was ledbefore him, a faint smile was visible beneath the soft, droopingmoustache and close-shaven beard on the cheeks and chin; the prince'sdull eyes also gained some little animation. 

The day after the reception a bell rang in the studio, which was clearedof all present as quickly as possible, for it announced the approach ofthe king, who appeared entirely alone and spent two whole hours withMoor. 

All these marks of distinction might have turned a weaker brain, butMoor received them calmly, and as soon as he was alone with Ulrich orSophonisba, appeared no less unassuming and kindly, than at Emmendingenand on the journey through France. 

A week after taking possession of the apartments in the treasury, theservants received orders to refuse admittance to every one, withoutdistinction of rank or person, informing them that the artist was engagedin working for His Majesty. 

Sophonisba Anguisciola was the only person whom Moor never refused tosee. He had greeted the strange girl on his arrival, as a father meetshis child. 

Ulrich had been present when the artist gave her his portrait, and sawher, overwhelmed with joy and gratitude, cover her face with her handsand burst into loud sobs. 

During Moor's first visit to Madrid, the young girl had come from Cremonato the king's court with her father and five sisters, and since then thetask of supporting all six had rested on her shoulders. 

Old Cavaliere Anguisciola was a nobleman of aristocratic family, who hadsquandered his large patrimony, and now, as he was fond of saying, livedday by day "by trusting God. " A large portion of his oldest daughter'searnings he wasted at the gaming table with dissolute nobles, relyingwith happy confidence upon the talent displayed also by his youngerchildren, and on what he called "trust in God. " The gay, clever Italianwas everywhere a welcome guest, and while Sophonisba toiled early andlate, often without knowing how she was to obtain suitable food andclothing for her sisters and herself, his life was a series of banquetsand festivals. Yet the noble girl retained the joyous courage inheritedfrom her father, nay, more--even in necessity she did not cease to take alofty view of art, and never permitted anything to leave her studio tillshe considered it finished. 

At first Moor watched her silently, then he invited her to work in hisstudio, and avail herself of his advice and assistance. 

So she had become his pupil, his friend. 

Soon the young girl had no secrets from him, and the glimpses of herdomestic life thus afforded touched him and brought her nearer and nearerto his heart. 

The old Cavaliere praised the lucky accident, and was ready to showhimself obliging, when Moor offered to let him and his daughters occupya house he had purchased, that it might be kept in a habitable condition, and when the artist had induced the king to grant Sophonisba a largerannual salary, the father instantly bought a second horse. 

The young girl, in return for so many benefits, was gratefully devoted tothe artist, but she would have loved him even without them. His societywas her greatest pleasure. To be allowed to stay and paint with him, become absorbed in conversation about art, its problems, means andpurposes, afforded her the highest, purest happiness. 

When she had discharged the duties imposed upon her by her attendanceupon the queen, her heart drew her to the man she loved and honored. When she left him, it always seemed as if she had been in church, as ifher soul had been steeped in purity and was effulgent. Moor had hoped tofind her sisters with her in Madrid, but the old Cavaliere had taken themaway with him to Italy. His "trust in God" was rewarded, for he hadinherited a large fortune. What should he do longer in Madrid! Toentertain the stiff, grave Spaniards and move them to laughter, was a farless pleasing occupation than to make merry with gay companions and beentertained himself at home. 

Sophonisba was provided for, and the beautiful, gay, famous maid of honorwould have no lack of suitors. Against his daughter's wish, he had givento the richest and most aristocratic among them, the Sicilian baronDon Fabrizio di Moncada, the hope of gaining her hand. "Conquer thefortress! When it yields--you can hold it, " were his last words; butthe citadel remained impregnable, though the besieger could bring intothe field as allies a knightly, aristocratic bearing, an unsulliedcharacter, a handsome, manly figure, winning manners, and great wealth. 

Ulrich felt a little disappointed not to find the five young girls, ofwhom he had dreamed, in Madrid; it would have been pleasant to have somepretty companions in the work now to begin. 

Adjoining the studio was a smaller apartment, separated from the formerroom by a corridor, that could be closed, and by a heavy curtain. Here atable, at which the five girls might easily have found room, was placedin a favorable light for Ulrich. He was to draw from plastic models, andthere was no lack of these in the Alcazar, for here rose a high, three-story wing, to which when wearied by the intrigues of statecraft and therestraints of court etiquette, King Philip gladly retired, yieldinghimself to the only genial impulse of his gloomy soul, and enjoyed thenoble forms of art. 

In the round hall on the lower floor countless plans, sketches, drawingsand works of art were kept in walnut chests of excellent workmanship. Above this beautifully ornamented apartment--was the library, and in thethird story the large hall containing the masterpieces of Titian. 

The restless statesman, Philip, was no less eager to collect and obtainnew and beautiful works by the great Venetian, than to defend andincrease his own power and that of the Church. But these treasures werekept jealously guarded, accessible to no human being except himself andhis artists. 

Philip was all and all to himself; caring nothing for others, he did notdeem it necessary, that they should share his pleasures. If anythingoutside the Church occupied a place in his regard, it was the artist, and therefore he did not grudge him what he denied to others. 

Not only in the upper story, but in the lower ones also antique andmodern busts and statues were arranged in appropriate places, and Moorwas at liberty to choose from among them, for the king permitted him todo what was granted to no one else. 

He often summoned him to the Titian Hall, and still more frequently rangthe bell and entered the connecting corridor, accessible to himselfalone, which led from the rooms devoted to art and science to thetreasury and studio, where he spent hours with Moor. Ulrich eagerlydevoted himself to the work, and his master watched his labor like anattentive, strict, and faithful teacher; meantime he carefully guardedagainst overtaxing the boy, allowed him to accompany him on many a ride, and advised him to look about the city. At first the lad liked to strollthrough the streets and watch the long, brilliant processions, or timidlyshrink back when closely-muffled men, their figures wholly invisibleexcept the eyes and feet, bore a corpse along, or glided on mysteriousmissions through the streets. The bull-fights might have bewitched him, but be loved horses, and it grieved him to see the noble animal, woundedand killed. 

He soon wearied of the civil and religious ceremonies, that might bewitnessed nearly every day, and which always exerted the same power ofattraction to the inhabitants of Madrid. Priests swarmed in the Alcazar, and soldiers belonging to every branch of military service, daily guardedor marched by the palace. 

On the journey he had met plenty of mules with gay plumes and tassels, oddly-dressed peasants and citizens. Gentlemen in brilliant courtuniforms, princes and princesses he saw daily in the court-yards, on thestairs, and in the park of the palace. 

At Toulouse and in other cities, through which he had passed, lifehad been far more busy, active, and gay than in quiet Madrid, whereeverything went on as if people were on their way to church, where acheerful face was rarely seen, and men and women knew of no sight morebeautiful and attractive, than seeing poor Jews and heretics burned. 

Ulrich did not need the city; the Alcazar was a world in itself, andoffered him everything he desired. 

He liked to linger in the stables, for there he could distinguishhimself; but it was also delightful to work, for Moor chose models anddesigns that pleased the lad, and Sophonisba Anguisciola, who oftenpainted for hours in the studio by the master's side, came to Ulrich inthe intervals, looked at what he had finished, helped, praised, orscolded him, and never left him without a jest on her lips. 

True, he was often left to himself; for the king sometimes summoned theartist and then quitted the palace with him for several days, to visitsecluded country houses, and there--the old Hollander had told the lad--painted under Moor's instructions. 

On the whole, there were new, strange, and surprising things enough, tokeep the sensation of "Fortune, " alive in Ulrich's heart. Only it wasvexatious that he found it so hard to make himself intelligible topeople, but this too was soon to be remedied, for the pupil obtained twocompanions. 

CHAPTER XV. 

Alonzo Sanchez Coello, a very distinguished Spanish artist, had hisstudio in the upper story of the treasury. The king was very friendly tohim, and often took him also on his excursions. The gay, lively artistclung without envy, and with ardent reverence, to Moor, whose fellow-pupil he had been in Florence and Venice. During the Netherlander'sfirst visit to Madrid, he had not disdained to seek counsel andinstruction from his senior, and even now frequently visited his studio, bringing with him his children Sanchez and Isabella as pupils, andwatched the Master closely while he painted. 

At first Ulrich was not specially pleased with his new companions, for inthe strangely visionary life he led, he had depended solely upon himselfand "Fortune, " and the figures living in his imagination were the mostenjoyable society to him. 

Formerly he had drawn eagerly in the morning, joyously anticipatedSophonisba's visit, and then gazed out over his paper and dreamed. How delightful it had been to let his thoughts wander to his heart'scontent. This could now be done no longer. 

So it happened, that at first he could feel no real confidence inSanchez, who was three years his senior, for the latter's thin limbsand close-cut dark hair made him look exactly like dark-browed Xaver. Therefore his relations with Isabella were all the more friendly. 

She was scarcely fourteen, a dear little creature, with awkward limbs, and a face so wonderfully changeful in expression, that it could not failto be by turns pretty and repellent. She always had beautiful eyes; allher other features were unformed, and might grow charming or exactly thereverse. When her work engrossed her attention, she bit her protrudedtongue, and her raven-black hair, usually remarkably smooth, often becameso oddly dishevelled, that she looked like a kobold; when, on the otherhand, she talked pleasantly or jested, no one could help being pleased. 

The child was rarely gifted, and her method of working was an exactcontrast to that of the German lad. She progressed slowly, but finallyaccomplished something admirable; what Ulrich impetuously began had ashowy, promising aspect, but in the execution the great idea shrivelled, and the work diminished in merit instead of increasing. 

Sanchez Coello remained far behind the other two, but to make amends, he knew many things of which Ulrich's uncorrupted soul had no suspicion. 

Little Isabella had been given by her mother, for a duenna, a watchful, ill-tempered widow, Senora Catalina, who never left the girl while sheremained with Moor's pupils. 

Receiving instruction with others urged Ulrich to rivalry, and alsoimproved his knowledge of Spanish. But he soon became familiar with thelanguage in another way, for one day, as he came out of the stables, a thin man in black, priestly robes, advanced towards him, lookedsearchingly into his face, then greeted him as a countryman, declaringthat it made him happy to speak his dear native tongue again. Finally, he invited the "artist" to visit him. His name was Magister Kochel andhe lodged with the king's almoner, for whom he was acting as clerk. 

The pallid man with the withered face, deep-set eyes and peculiar grin, which always showed the bluish-red gums above the teeth, did not pleasethe boy, but the thought of being able to talk in his native languageattracted him, and he went to the German's. 

He soon thought that by so doing he was accomplishing something good anduseful, for the former offered to teach him to write and speak Spanish. Ulrich was glad to have escaped from school, and declined this proposal;but when the German suggested that he should content himself withspeaking the language, assuring him that it could be accomplished withoutany difficulty, Ulrich consented and went daily at twilight to theMagister. 

Instruction began at once and was pleasant enough, for Kochel let himtranslate merry tales and love stories from French and Italian books, which he read aloud in German, never scolded him, and after the firsthalf-hour always laid the volume aside to talk with him. 

Moor thought it commendable and right, for Ulrich to take upon himselfthe labor and constraint of studying a language, and promised, when thelessons were over, to give a fitting payment to the Magister, who seemedto have scanty means of livelihood. 

The master ought to have been well disposed towards worthy Kochel, forthe latter was an enthusiastic admirer of his works. He ranked theNetherlander above Titian and the other great Italian artists, called himthe worthy friend of gods and kings, and encouraged his pupil to imitatehim. 

"Industry, industry!" cried the Magister. "Only by industry is thesummit of wealth and fame gained. To be sure, such success demandssacrifices. How rarely is the good man permitted to enjoy the blessingof mass. When did he go to church last?"

Ulrich answered these and similar questions frankly and truthfully, and when Kochel praised the friendship uniting the artist to the king, calling them Orestes and Pylades, Ulrich, proud of the honor shown hismaster, told him how often Philip secretly visited the latter. 

At every succeeding interview Kochel asked, as if by chance, in the midstof a conversation about other things: "Has the king honored you again?"or "You happy people, it is reported that the king has shown you his faceagain. "

This "you" flattered Ulrich, for it allowed a ray of the royal favor tofall upon him also, so he soon informed his countryman, unasked, of everyone of the monarch's visits to the treasury. 

Weeks and months elapsed. 

Towards the close of his first year's residence in Madrid, Ulrich spokeSpanish with tolerable fluency, and could easily understand his fellow-pupils; nay, be had even begun to study Italian. 

Sophonisba Anguisciola still spent all her leisure hours in the studio, painting or conversing with Moor. Various dignitaries and grandees alsowent in and out of the studio, and among them frequently appeared, indeedusually when Sophonisba was present, her faithful admirer Don Fabrizio diMoncada. 

Once Ulrich, without listening, heard Moor through the open door of theschool-room, represent to her, that it was unwise to reject a suitor likethe baron; he was a noble, high-minded gentleman and his love beyondquestion. 

Her answer was long in coming; at last she rose, saying in an agitatedvoice: "We know each other, Master; I know your kind intentions. Andyet, yet! Let me remain what I am, however insignificant that may be. I like the baron, but what better gifts can marriage bestow, than Ialready possess? My love belongs to Art, and you--you are my friend. . . . My sisters are my children. Have I not gained the right to call them so?I shall have no lack of duties towards them, when my father hassquandered his inheritance. My noble queen will provide for my future, and I am necessary to her. My heart is filled--filled to the brim; I dowhat I can, and is it not a beautiful thought, that I am permitted to besomething to those I love? Let me remain your Sophonisba, and a freeartist. "

"Yes, yes, yes! Remain what you are, girl!" Moor exclaimed, and then fora long time silence reigned in the studio. 

Even before they could understand each other's language, a friendlyintercourse had existed between Isabella and her German fellow-pupil, for in leisure moments they had sketched each other more than once. 

These pictures caused much laughter and often occasional harmlessscuffles between Ulrich and Sanchez, for the latter liked to lay handson these portraits and turn them into hideous caricatures. 

Isabella often earned the artist's unqualified praise, Ulrich sometimesreceived encouraging, sometimes reproving, and sometimes even harshwords. The latter Moor always addressed to him in German, but theydeeply wounded the lad, haunting him for days. 

The "word" still remained obedient to him. Only in matters relating toart, the power of "fortune" seemed to fail, and deny its service. 

When the painter set him difficult tasks, which he could not readilyaccomplish, he called upon the "word;" but the more warmly and ferventlyhe did so, the more surely he receded instead of advancing. When, on thecontrary, he became angered against "fortune, " reproached, rejected it, and relied wholly on himself, he accomplished the hardest things and wonMoor's praise. 

He often thought, that he would gladly resign his untroubled, luxuriouslife, and all the other gifts of Fortune, if he could only succeed inaccomplishing what Moor desired him to attain in art. He knew and feltthat this was the right goal; but one thing was certain, he could neverattain it with pencil and charcoal. What his soul dreamed, what hismental vision beheld was colored. Drawing, perpetual drawing, becameburdensome, repulsive, hateful; but with palette and brush in his hand hecould not fail to become an artist, perhaps an artist like Titian. 

He already used colors in secret; Sanchez Coello had been the cause ofhis making the first trial. 

This precocious youth was suing for a fair girl's favor, and made Ulrichhis confidant. One day, when Moor and Sanchez's father had gone with theking to Toledo, he took him to a balcony in the upper story of thetreasury, directly opposite to the gate-keeper's lodgings, and onlyseparated by a narrow court-yard from the window, where sat prettyCarmen, the porter's handsome daughter. 

The girl was always to be found here, for her father's room was verydark, and she was compelled to embroider priestly robes from morning tillnight. This pursuit brought in money, which was put to an excellent useby the old man, who offered sacrifices to his own comfort at the cook-shop, and enjoyed fish fried in oil with his Zamora wine. The better herfather's appetite was, the more industriously the daughter was obligedto embroider. Only on great festivals, or when an 'Auto-da-fe' wasproclaimed, was Carmen permitted to leave the palace with her old aunt;yet she had already found suitors. Nineteen-year-old Sanchez did notindeed care for her hand, but merely for her love, and when it began togrow dusk, he stationed himself on the balcony which he had discovered, made signs to her, and flung flowers or bonbons on her table. 

"She is still coy, " said the young Spaniard, telling Ulrich to wait atthe narrow door, which opened upon the balcony. "There sits the angel!Just look! I gave her the pomegranate blossom in her magnificent hair--did you ever see more beautiful tresses? Take notice! She'll soon melt;I know women!"

Directly after a bouquet of roses fell into the embroiderer's lap. Carmen uttered a low cry, and perceiving Sanchez, motioned him away withher head and hand, finally turning her back upon him. 

"She's in a bad humor to-day, " said Sanchez; "but I beg you to noticethat she'll keep my roses. She'll wear one to-morrow in her hair or onher bosom; what will you wager?"

"That may be, " answered Ulrich. "She probably has no money to buy anyfor herself. "

To be sure, the next day at twilight Carmen wore a rose in her hair. 

Sanchez exulted, and drew Ulrich out upon the balcony. The beautyglanced at him, blushed, and returned the fair-haired boy's salutationwith a slight bend of the head. 

The gate-keeper's little daughter was a pretty child, and Ulrich had nofear of doing what Sanchez ventured. 

On the third day he again accompanied him to the balcony, and this time, after silently calling upon the "word, " pressed his hand upon his heart, just as Carmen looked at him. 

The young girl blushed again, waved her fan, and then bent her littlehead so low, that it almost touched the embroidery. 

The next evening she secretly kissed her fingers to Ulrich. 

From this time the young lover preferred to seek the balcony withoutSanchez. He would gladly have called a few tender words across, or sungto his lute, but that would not do, for people were constantly passingto and fro in the court-yard. 

Then the thought occurred to him, that he could speak to the fair one bymeans of a picture. 

A small panel was soon found, he had plenty of brushes and colors tochoose from, and in a few minutes, a burning heart, transfixed by anarrow, was completed. But the thing looked horribly red and ugly, so herejected it, and painted--imitating one of Titian's angels, whichspecially pleased him--a tiny Cupid, holding a heart in his hand. 

He had learned many things from the master, and as the little figurerounded into shape, it afforded him so much pleasure, that he could notleave it, and finished it the third day. 

It had not entered his mind to create a completed work of art, but theimpetuosity of youth, revelling in good fortune, had guided his brush. The little Cupid bent joyously forward, drawing the right leg back, as ifmaking a bow. Finally Ulrich draped about him a black and yellow scarf, such as he had often seen the young Austrian archduke wear, and besidesthe pierced heart, placed a rose in the tiny, ill-drawn hand. 

He could not help laughing at his "masterpiece" and hurried out on thebalcony with the wet painting, to show it to Carmen. She laughedheartily too, answered his salutations with tender greetings, then laidaside her embroidery and went back into the room, but only to immediatelyreappear at the window again, holding up a prayer-book and extendingtowards him the eight fingers of her industrious little hands. 

He motioned that he understood her, and at eight o'clock the next morningwas kneeling by her side at mass, where he took advantage of a favorableopportunity to whisper: "Beautiful Carmen!"

The young girl blushed, but he vainly awaited an answer. Carmen nowrose, and when Ulrich also stood up to permit her to pass, she droppedher prayer-book, as if by accident. He stooped with her to pick it up, and when their heads nearly touched, she whispered hurriedly: "Nineo'clock this evening in the shell grotto; the garden will be open. "

Carmen awaited him at the appointed place. 

At first Ulrich's heart throbbed so loudly and passionately, that hecould find no words; but the young girl helped him, by telling him thathe was a handsome fellow, whom it would be easy to love. 

Then he remembered the vows of tenderness he had translated at Kochel's, falteringly repeated them, and fell on one knee before her, like all theheroes in adventures and romances. 

And behold! Carmen did exactly the same as the young ladies whoseacquaintance he had made at his teacher's, begged him to rise, and whenhe willingly obeyed the command--for he wore thin silk stockings and thegrotto was paved with sharp stones--drew him to her heart, and tenderlystroked his hair back from his face with her dainty fingers, while hegladly permitted her to press her soft young lips to his. 

All this was delightful, and he had no occasion to speak at all; yetUlrich felt timid and nervous. It seemed like a deliverance when thefootsteps of the guard were heard, and Carmen drew him away through thegate with her into the court-yard. 

Before the little door leading into her father's room she again pressedhis hand, and then vanished as swiftly as a shadow. 

Ulrich remained alone, pacing slowly up and down before the treasury, for he knew that he had done something very wrong, and did not ventureto appear before the artist. 

When he entered the dark garden, he had again summoned "fortune" to hisaid; but now it would have pleased him better, if it had been lesswilling to come to his assistance. 

Candles were burning in the studio, and Moor sat in his arm-chair, holding--Ulrich would fain have bidden himself in the earth--the boy'sCupid in his hands. 

The young culprit wanted to slip past his teacher with a low "goodnight, " but the latter called him, and pointing to the picture, smilinglyasked: "Did you paint this?"

Ulrich nodded, blushing furiously. 

The artist eyed him from top to toe, saying: "Well, well, it is reallyvery pretty. I suppose it is time now for us to begin to paint. "

The lad did not know what had happened, for a few weeks before Moor hadharshly refused, when he asked the same thing now voluntarily offered. 

Scarcely able to control his surprise and joy, be bent over the artist'shand to kiss it, but the latter withdrew it, gazed steadily into his eyeswith paternal affection, and said: "We will try, my boy, but we must notgive up drawing, for that is the father of our art. Drawing keeps uswithin the bounds assigned to what is true and beautiful. The morningyou must spend as before; after dinner you shall be rewarded by usingcolors. " This plan was followed, and the pupil's first love affair borestill another fruit--it gave a different form to his relations withSanchez. The feeling that he had stood in his way and abused hisconfidence sorely disturbed Ulrich, so he did everything in his powerto please his companion. 

He did not see the fair Carmen again, and in a few weeks the appointmentwas forgotten, for painting under Moor's instruction absorbed him asnothing in his life had ever done before, and few things did after. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Ulrich was now seventeen, and had been allowed to paint for four months. 

Sanchez Coello rarely appeared in the studio, for he had gone to studywith the architect, Herrera; Isabella vied with Ulrich, but was speedilyoutstripped by the German. 

It seemed as if he had been born with the power to use the brush, andthe young girl watched his progress with unfeigned pleasure. When Moorharshly condemned his drawing, her kind eyes grew dim with tears; if themaster looked at his studies with an approving smile, and showed them toSophonisba with words of praise, she was as glad as if they had beenbestowed upon herself. 

The Italian came daily to the treasury as usual, to paint, talk or playchess with Moor; she rejoiced at Ulrich's progress, and gave him many auseful suggestion. 

When the young artist once complained that he had no good models, shegaily offered to sit to him. This was a new and unexpected piece of goodfortune. Day and night he thought only of Sophonisba. The sittingsbegan. 

The Italian wore a red dress, trimmed with gold embroidery, and a highwhite lace ruff, that almost touched her cheeks. Her wavy brown hairclung closely to the beautiful oval head, its heavy braids covering theback of the neck; tiny curls fluttered around her ears and harmonizedadmirably with the lovely, mischievous expression of the mouth, that wonall hearts. To paint the intelligent brown eyes was no easy matter, andshe requested Ulrich to be careful about her small, rather prominentchin, which was anything but beautiful, and not make her unusually high, broad forehead too conspicuous; she had only put on the pearl diadem torelieve it. 

The young artist set about this task with fiery impetuosity, and thefirst sketch surpassed all expectations. 

Don Fabrizio thought the picture "startlingly" like the original. Moorwas not dissatisfied, but feared that in the execution his pupil's workwould lose the bold freshness, which lent it a certain charm in his eyes, and was therefore glad when the bell rang, and soon after the kingappeared, to whom he intended to show Ulrich's work. 

Philip had not been in the studio for a long time, but the artist hadreason to expect him; for yesterday the monarch must have received hisletter, requesting that he would graciously grant him permission to leaveMadrid. 

Moor had remained in Spain long enough, and his wife and child wereurging his return. Yet departure was hard for him on Sophonisba'saccount; but precisely because he felt that she was more to him than abeloved pupil and daughter, he had resolved to hasten his leave-taking. 

All present were quickly dismissed, the bolts were drawn and Philipappeared. 

He looked paler than usual, worn and weary. 

Moor greeted him respectfully, saying: "It is long since Your Majesty hasvisited the treasury. "

"Not 'Your Majesty;' to you I am Philip, " replied the king. "And youwish to leave me, Antonio! Recall your letter! You must not go now. "

The sovereign, without waiting for a reply, now burst into complaintsabout the tiresome, oppressive duties of his office, the incapacity ofthe magistrates, the selfishness, malice and baseness of men. Helamented that Moor was a Netherlander, and not a Spaniard, called himthe only friend he possessed among the rebellious crew in Holland andFlanders, and stopped him when he tried to intercede for his countrymen, though repeatedly assuring him that he found in his society his bestpleasure, his only real recreation; Moor must stay, out of friendship, compassion for him, a slave in the royal purple. 

After the artist had promised not to speak of departure during the nextfew days, Philip began to paint a saint, which Moor had sketched, but atthe end of half an hour he threw down his brush. He called himselfnegligent of duty, because he was following his inclination, instead ofusing his brain and hands in the service of the State and Church. Dutywas his tyrant, his oppressor. When the day-laborer threw his hoe overhis shoulder, the poor rascal was rid of toil and anxiety; but theypursued him everywhere, night and day. His son was a monster, hissubjects were rebels or cringing hounds. Bands of heretics, like molesor senseless brutes, undermined and assailed the foundation of the throneand safeguard of society: the Church. To crush and vanquish was hisprofession, hatred his reward on earth. Then, after a moment's silence, he pointed towards heaven, exclaiming as if in ecstasy: "There, there!with Him, with Her, with the Saints, for whom I fight!"

The king had rarely come to the treasury in such a mood. He seemed tofeel this too, and after recovering his self-control, said:

"It pursues me even here, I cannot succeed in getting the right coloringto-day. Have you finished anything new?"

Moor now pointed out to the king a picture by his own hand, and afterPhilip had gazed at it long and appreciatively, criticising it withexcellent judgment, the artist led him to Ulrich's portrait ofSophonisba, and asked, not without anxiety: "What does Your Majesty sayto this attempt?"

"Hm!" observed the monarch. "A little of Moor, something borrowed fromTitian, yet a great deal that is original. The bluish-grey leaden tonecomes from your shop. The thing is a wretched likeness! Sophonisbaresembles a gardener's boy. Who made it?"

"My pupil, Ulrich Navarrete. "

"How long has he been painting?"

"For several months, Sire. "

"And you think he will be an artist of note?"

"Perhaps so. In many respects he surpasses my expectations, in others hefalls below them. He is a strange fellow. "

"He is ambitious, at any rate. "

"No small matter for the future artist. What he eagerly begins has avery grand and promising aspect; but it shrinks in the execution. Hismind seizes and appropriates what he desires to represent, at a singlehasty grasp. . . . "

"Rather too vehement, I should think. "

"No fault at his age. What he possesses makes me less anxious, than whathe lacks. I cannot yet discover the thoughtful artist-spirit in him. "

"You mean the spirit, that refines what it has once taken, and in quietmeditation arranges lines, and assigns each color to its proper place, inshort your own art-spirit. "

"And yours also, Sire. If you had begun to paint early, you would havepossessed what Ulrich lacks. "

"Perhaps so. Besides, his defect is one of those which will vanish withyears. In your school, with zeal and industry. . . . "

"He will obtain, you think, what he lacks. I thought so too! But as Iwas saying: he is queerly constituted. What you have admitted to me morethan once, the point we have started from in a hundred conversations--hecannot grasp: form is not the essence of art to him. "

The king shrugged his shoulders and pointed to his forehead; but Moorcontinued: "Everything he creates must reflect anew, what he experiencedat the first sight of the subject. Often the first sketch succeeds, butif it fails, he seeks without regard to truth and accuracy, by means oftrivial, strange expedients, to accomplish his purpose. Sentiment, always sentiment! Line and tone are everything; that is our motto. Whoever masters them, can express the grandest things. "

"Right, right! Keep him drawing constantly. Give him mouths, eyes, and hands to paint. "

"That must be done in Antwerp. "

"I'll hear nothing about Antwerp! You will stay, Antonio, you will stay. Your wife and child-all honor to them. I have seen your wife's portrait. Good, nourishing bread! Here you have ambrosia and manna. You know whomI mean; Sophonisba is attached to you; the queen says so. "

"And I gratefully feel it. It is hard to leave your gracious Majesty andSophonisba; but bread, Sire, bread--is necessary to life. I shall leavefriends here, dear friends--it will be difficult, very difficult, to findnew ones at my age. "

"It is the same with me, and for that very reason you will stay, if youare my friend! No more! Farewell, Antonio, till we meet again, perhapsto-morrow, in spite of a chaos of business. Happy fellow that you are!In the twinkling of an eye you will be revelling in colors again, whilethe yoke, the iron yoke, weighs me down. "

Moor thought he should be able to work undisturbed after the king hadleft him, and left the door unbolted. He was standing before the easelafter dinner, engaged in painting, when the door of the corridor leadingto the treasury was suddenly flung open, without the usual warning, andPhilip again entered the studio. This time his cheeks wore a less pallidhue than in the morning, and his gait showed no traces of the solemngravity, which had become a second nature to him, --on the contrary he wasgay and animated. 

But the expression did not suit him; it seemed as if he had donned aborrowed, foreign garb, in which he was ill at ease and could not movefreely. 

Waving a letter in his right hand, he pointed to it with his left, exclaiming:

"They are coming. This time two marvels at once. Our Saviour praying inthe garden of Gethsemane, and Diana at the Bath. Look, look! Even thisis a treasure. These lines are from Titian's own hand. "

"A peerless old man, " Moor began; but Philip impetuously interrupted:"Old man, old man? A youth, a man, a vigorous man. How soon he will beninety, and yet--yet; who will equal him?"

As he uttered the last words, the monarch stopped before Sophonisba'sportrait, and pointing to it with the scornful chuckle peculiar to him, continued gaily:

"There the answer meets me directly. That red! The Venetian's laurelsseem to have turned your high flown pupil's head. A hideous picture!"

"It doesn't seem so bad to me, " replied Moor. "There is even somethingabout it I like. "

"You, you?" cried Philip. "Poor Sophonisba!"

"Those carbuncle eyes! And a mouth, that looks as if she could eatnothing but sugar-plums. I don't know what tickles me to-day. Give methe palette. The outlines are tolerably good, the colors fairly shriek. But what boy can understand a woman, a woman like your friend! I'llpaint over the monster, and if the picture isn't Sophonisba, it may servefor a naval battle. "

The king had snatched the palette from the artist's hand, clipped hisbrush in the paint, and smiling pleasantly, was about to set to work; butMoor placed himself between the sovereign and the canvas; exclaiminggaily: "Paint me, Philip; but spare the portrait. "

"No, no; it will do for the naval battle, " chuckled the king, and whilehe pushed the artist back, the latter, carried away by the monarch'sunusual freedom, struck him lightly on the shoulder with the maul-stick. 

The sovereign started, his lips grew white, he drew his small but statelyfigure to its full height. His unconstrained bearing was instantlytransformed into one of unapproachable, icy dignity. 

Moor felt what was passing in the ruler's mind. 

A slight shiver ran through his frame, but his calmness remainedunshaken, and before the insulted monarch found time to give vent to hisindignation in words, he said quickly, as if the offence he had committedwas not worth mentioning:

"Queer things are done among comrades in art. The painter's war is over!Begin the naval battle, Sire, or still better, lend more charm anddelicacy to the corners of the mouth. The pupil's worst failure is inthe chin; more practised hands might be wrecked on that cliff. Thoseeyes! Perhaps they sparkled just in that way, but we are agreed in onething: the portrait ought not to represent the original at a givenmoment, ruled by a certain feeling or engaged in a special act, butshould express the sum of the spiritual, intellectual and personalattributes of the subject--his soul and person, mind and character-feelings and nature. King Philip, pondering over complicated politicalcombinations, would be a fascinating historical painting, but nolikeness. . . . "

"Certainly not, " said the king in a low voice; "the portrait must revealthe inmost spirit; mine must show how warmly Philip loves art and hisartists. Take the palette, I beg. It is for you, the great Master, notfor me, the overworked, bungling amateur, to correct the work of talentedpupils. "

There was a hypocritical sweetness in the tone of these words which hadnot escaped the artist. 

Philip had long been a master in the school of dissimulation, but Moorknew him thoroughly, and understood the art of reading his heart. 

This mode of expression from the king alarmed him more than a passionateoutburst of rage. He only spoke in this way when concealing what wasseething within. Besides, there was another token. The Netherlanderhad intentionally commenced a conversation on art, and it was almostunprecedented to find Philip disinclined to enter into one. The blowhad been scarcely perceptible, but Majesty will not endure a touch. 

Philip did not wish to quarrel with the artist now, but he would rememberthe incident, and woe betide him, if in some gloomy hour the sovereignshould recall the insult offered him here. Even the lightest blow fromthe paw of this slinking tiger could inflict deep wounds--even death. 

These thoughts had darted with the speed of lightning through theartist's mind, and still lingered there as, respectfully declining totake the palette, he replied "I beseech you, Sire, keep the brush andcolors, and correct what you dislike. "

"That would mean to repaint the whole picture, and my time is limited, "answered Philip. "You are responsible for your pupils' faults, as wellas for your own offences. Every one is granted, allowed, offered, whatis his due; is it not so, dear master? Another time, then, you shallhear from me!" In the doorway the monarch kissed his hand to the artist, then disappeared. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Moor remained alone in the studio. How could he have played such aboyish prank!

He was gazing anxiously at the floor, for he had good reason to betroubled, though the reflection that he had been alone with the king, andthe unprecedented act had occurred without witnesses, somewhat soothedhim. He could not know that a third person, Ulrich, had beheld thereckless, fateful contest. 

The boy had been drawing in the adjoining room, when loud voices wereheard in the studio. He cherished a boundless reverence, bordering uponidolatry, for his first model, the beautiful Sophonisba, and supposingthat it was she, discussing works of art with Moor, as often happened, he opened the door, pushed back the curtain, and saw the artist tap thechuckling king on the arm. 

The scene was a merry one, yet a thrill of fear ran through his limbs, and he went back to his plaster model more rapidly than he had come. 

At nightfall Moor sought Sophonisba. He had been invited to a ball givenby the queen, and knew that he should find the maid of honor amongIsabella's attendants. 

The magnificent apartments were made as light as day by thousands of wax-candles in silver and bronze candelabra; costly Gobelin tapestry andpurple Flanders hangings covered the walls, and the bright hues of thepaintings were reflected from the polished floors, flooded with brilliantlight. 

No dancing had ever been permitted at the court before Philip's marriagewith the French princess, who had been accustomed to greater freedom ofmanners; now a ball was sometimes given in the Alcazar. The first personwho had ventured to dance the gaillarde before the eyes of the monarchand his horrified courtiers, was Sophonisba--her partner was DukeGonzaga. Strangely enough, the gayest lady at the court was the veryperson, who gave the gossips the least occasion for scandal. 

A gavotte was just over, as Moor entered the superb rooms. In the firstrank of the brilliant circle of distinguished ecclesiastics, ambassadorsand grandees, who surrounded the queen, stood the Austrian archdukes, andthe handsome, youthful figures of Alexander of Parma and of Don Juan, thehalf-brother of King Philip. 

Don Carlos, the deformed heir to the throne, was annoying with his coarsejests some ladies of the court, who were holding their fans before theirfaces, yet did not venture to make the sovereign's son feel theirdispleasure. 

Velvet, silk and jewels glittered, delicate laces rose and droopedaround the necks and hands of the ladies and gentlemen. Floating curls, sparkling eyes, noble and attractive features enslaved the eye, but thenecks, throats and arms of the court dames were closely concealed underhigh ruffs and lace frills, stiff bodices and puffed sleeves. 

A subtile perfume filled the illuminated air of these festal halls;amidst the flirting of light fans, laughter, gay conversation, andslander reigned supreme. In an adjoining room golden zechins fellrattling and ringing on the gaming-table. 

The morose, bigoted court, hampered by rigid formality, had been invadedby worldly pleasure, which disported itself unabashed by the presence ofthe distinguished prelates in violet and scarlet robes, who paced withdignified bearing through the apartments, greeting the more prominentladies and grandees. 

A flourish of trumpets was borne on the air, and Philip appeared. Thecavaliers, bowing very low, suddenly stepped back from the fair dames, and the ladies curtsied to the floor. Perfect silence followed. 

It seemed as if an icy wind had passed over the flower-beds and bent allthe blossoms at once. 

After a few minutes the gentlemen stood erect, and the ladies rose again, but even the oldest duchesses were not allowed the privilege of sittingin their sovereign's presence. 

Gayety was stifled, conversation was carried on in whispers. 

The young people vainly waited for the signal to dance. 

It was long since Philip had been so proudly contemptuous, so morose ashe was to-night. Experienced courtiers noticed that His Majesty held hishead higher than usual, and kept out of his way. He walked as if engagedin scrutinizing the frescos on the ceiling, but nothing that he wished tosee escaped his notice, and when he perceived Moor, he nodded graciouslyand smiled pleasantly upon him for a moment, but did not, as usual, beckon him to approach. 

This did not escape the artist or Sophonisba, whom Moor had informed ofwhat had occurred. 

He trusted her as he did himself, and she deserved his confidence. 

The clever Italian had shared his anxiety, and as soon as the kingentered another apartment, she beckoned to Moor and held a longconversation with him in a window-recess. She advised him to keepeverything in readiness for departure, and she undertook to watch andgive him timely warning. 

It was long after midnight, when Moor returned to his rooms. He sent thesleepy servant to rest, and paced anxiously to and fro for a short time;then he pushed Ulrich's portrait of Sophonisba nearer the mantel-piece, where countless candles were burning in lofty sconces. 

This was his friend, and yet it was not. The thing lacking--yes, theking was right--was incomprehensible to a boy. 

We cannot represent, what we are unable to feel. Yet Philip's censurehad been too severe. With a few strokes of the brush Moor expected tomake this picture a soul mirror of the beloved girl, from whom it washard, unspeakably hard for him to part. 

"More than fifty!" he thought, a melancholy smile hovering around hismouth. --"More than fifty, an old husband and father, and yet--yet--goodnourishing bread at home--God bless it, Heaven preserve it! It only thisgirl were my daughter! How long the human heart retains its functionalpower! Perhaps love is the pith of life--when it dries, the tree witherstoo!"

Still absorbed in thought, Moor had seized his palette, and at intervalsadded a few short, almost imperceptible strokes to the mouth, eyes, anddelicate nostrils of the portrait, before which he sat--but these fewstrokes lent charm and intellectual expression to his pupil's work. 

When he at last rose and looked at what he had done, he could not helpsmiling, and asking himself how it was possible to imitate, with suchtrivial materials, the noblest possessions of man: mind and soul. Bothnow spoke to the spectator from these features. The right words wereeasy to the master, and with them he had given the clumsy sentencemeaning and significance. 

The next morning Ulrich found Moor before Sophonisba's portrait. Thepupil's sleep had been no less restless than the master's, for the formerhad done something which lay heavy on his heart. 

After being an involuntary witness of the scene in the studio the daybefore he had taken a ride with Sanchez and had afterwards gone toKochel's to take a lesson. True, he now spoke Spanish with tolerablefluency and knew something of Italian, but Kochel entertained him sowell, that he still visited him several times a week. 

On this occasion, there was no translating. The German first kindlyupbraided him for his long absence, and then, after the conversation hadturned upon his painting and Moor, sympathizingly asked what truth therewas in the rumor, that the king had not visited the artist for a longtime and had withdrawn his favor from him. 

"Withdrawn his favor!" Ulrich joyously exclaimed. "They are like twobrothers! They wrestled together to-day, and the master, in allfriendship, struck His Majesty a blow with the maul-stick. . . . But--forHeaven's sake!--you will swear--fool, that I am--you will swear not tospeak of it!"

"Of course I will!" Kochel exclaimed with a loud laugh. "My hand uponit Navarrete. I'll keep silence, but you! Don't gossip about that! Noton any account! The jesting blow might do the master harm. Excuse mefor to-day; there is a great deal of writing to be done for the almoner. "

Ulrich went directly back to the studio. The conviction that he hadcommitted a folly, nay, a crime, had taken possession of him directlyafter the last word escaped his lips, and now tortured him more andmore. If Kochel, who was a very ordinary man, should not keep thesecret, what might not Moor suffer from his treachery! The lad wasusually no prattler, yet now, merely to boast of his master's familiarintercourse with the king, he had forgotten all caution. 

After a restless night, his first thought had been to look at hisportrait of Sophonisba. The picture lured, bewitched, enthralled himwith an irresistible spell. 

Was this really his work?

He recognized every stroke of the brush. And yet! Those thoughtfuleyes, the light on the lofty brow, the delicate lips, which seemed aboutparting to utter some wise or witty word--he had not painted them, never, never could he have accomplished such a masterpiece. He became veryanxious. Had "Fortune, " which usually left him in the lurch whencreating, aided him on this occasion? Last evening, before he went tobed, the picture had been very different. Moor rarely painted bycandlelight and he had heard him come home late, yet now--now. . . . . 

He was roused from these thoughts by the artist, who had been feastinghis eyes a long time on the handsome lad, now rapidly developing into ayouth, as he stood before the canvas as if spellbound. He felt what waspassing in the awakening artist-soul, for a similar incident had happenedto himself, when studying with his old master, Schorel. 

"What is the matter?" asked Moor as quietly as usual, laying his handupon the arm of his embarrassed pupil. "Your work seems to please youremarkably. "

"It is-I don't know"--stammered Ulrich. "It seems as if in the night. . . "

"That often happens, " interrupted the master. "If a man devotes himselfearnestly to his profession, and says to himself: 'Art shall beeverything to me, all else trivial interruptions, ' invisible powers aidhim, and when he sees in the morning what he has created the day before, he imagines a miracle has happened. "

At these words Ulrich grew red and pale by turns. At last, shaking hishead, he murmured in an undertone: "Yes, but those shadows at the cornersof the mouth--do you see?--that light on the brow, and there--just lookat the nostrils--I certainly did not paint those. "

"I don't think them so much amiss, " replied Moor. "Whatever friendlyspirits now work for you at night, you must learn in Antwerp to paint inbroad day at any hour. "

"In Antwerp?"

"We shall prepare for departure this very day. It must be done with theutmost privacy. When Isabella has gone, pack your best clothes in thelittle knapsack. Perhaps we shall leave secretly; we have remained inMadrid long enough. Keep yourself always in readiness. No one, do youhear, no human being, not even the servants, must suspect what is goingon. I know you; you are no babbler. "

The artist suddenly paused and turned pale, for men's loud, angry voiceswere heard outside the door of the studio. 

Ulrich too was startled. 

The master's intention of leaving Madrid had pleased him, for it wouldwithdraw the former from the danger that might result from his ownimprudence. But as the strife in the anteroom grew louder, he alreadysaw the alguazils forcing their way into the studio. 

Moor went towards the door, but it was thrown wide open ere he reachedit, and a bearded lansquenet crossed the threshold. 

Laughing scornfully, he shouted a few derisive words at the Frenchservants who had tried to stop him, then turning to the artist, andthrowing back his broad chest, he held out his arms towards Moor, withpassionate ardor, exclaiming: "These French flunkies--the varlets, triedto keep me from waiting upon my benefactor, my friend, the great Moor, to show my reverence for him. How you stare at me, Master! Have youforgotten Christmas-day at Emmendingen, and Hans Eitelfritz from Colln onthe Spree?"

Every trace of anxiety instantly vanished from the face of the artist, who certainly had not recognized in this braggart the modest companion ofthose days. 

Eitelfritz was strangely attired, so gaily and oddly dressed, that hecould not fail to be conspicuous even among his comrades. One leg of hisbreeches, striped with red and blue, reached far below his knee, whilethe other, striped with yellow and green, enclosed the upper part of thelimb, like a full muff. Then how many puffs, slashes and ribbons adornedhis doublet! What gay plumes decked the pointed edge of his cap. 

Moor gave the faithful fellow a friendly welcome, and expressed hispleasure at meeting him so handsomely equipped. He held his head highernow, than he used to do under the wagon-tilt and in quarters, anddoubtless he had earned a right to do so. 

"The fact is, " replied Hans Eitelfritz, "I've received double pay for thepast nine months, and take a different view of life from that of a poordevil of a man-at-arms who goes fighting through the country. You knowthe ditty:

 "'There is one misery on earth, Well, well for him, who knows it not! With beggar's staff to wander forth, Imploring alms from spot to spot. '

"And the last verse:

 "'And shall we never receive our due? Will our sore trials never end? Leader to victory, be true, Come quickly, death, beloved friend. '

"I often sang it in those days; but now: What does the world cost? Athousand zechins is not too much for me to pay for it!"

"Have you gained booty, Hans?"

"Better must come; but I'm faring tolerably well. Nothing but feasting!Three of us came here from Venice through Lombardy, by ship from Genoa toBarcelona, and thence through this barren, stony country here to Madrid. "

"To take service?"

"No, indeed. I'm satisfied with my company and regiment. We broughtsome pictures here, painted by the great master, Titian, whose fame mustsurely have reached you. See this little purse! hear its jingle--it'sall gold! If any one calls King Philip a niggard again, I'll knock histeeth down his throat. "

"Good tidings, good reward!" laughed Moor. "Have you had board andlodging too?"

"A bed fit for the Roman Emperor, --and as for the rest?--I told you, nothing but feasting. Unluckily, the fun will be all over to-night, butto go without paying my respects to you. . . . . Zounds! is that the littlefellow--the Hop-o'my-Thumb-who pressed forward to the muster-table atEmmendingen?"

"Certainly, certainly. "

"Zounds, he has grown. We'll gladly enlist you now, young sir. Can you remember me?"

"Of course I do, " replied Ulrich. "You sang the song about'good fortune'"

"Have you recollected that?" asked the lansquenet. "Foolish stuff!Believe it or not, I composed the merry little thing when in great sorrowand poverty, just to warm my heart. Now I'm prosperous, and can rarelysucceed in writing a verse. Fires are not needed in summer. "

"Where have you been lodged?"

"Here in the 'old cat. ' That's a good name for this Goliath's palace. "

When Eitelfritz had enquired about the jester and drunk a goblet of winewith Moor and Ulrich, he took leave of them both, and soon after theartist went to the city alone. 

At the usual hour Isabella Coello came with her duenna to the studio, and instantly noticed the change Sophonisba's portrait had undergone. 

Ulrich stood beside her before the easel, while she examined his work. 

The young girl gazed at it a long, long time, without a word, only oncepausing in her scrutiny to ask: "And you, you painted this--without themaster?"

Ulrich shook his head, saying, in an undertone: "I suppose he thinks itis my own work; and yet--I can't understand it. "

"But I can, " she eagerly exclaimed, still gazing intently at theportrait. 

At last, turning her round, pleasant flee towards him, she looked at himwith tears in her eyes, saying so affectionately that the innermostdepths of Ulrich's heart were stirred: "How glad I am! I could neveraccomplish such a work. You will become a great artist, a verydistinguished one, like Moor. Take notice, you surely will. Howbeautiful that is!--I can find no words to express my admiration. "

At these words the blood mounted to Ulrich's brain, and either the fierywine he had drunk, or the delighted girl's prophetic words, or both, fairly intoxicated him. Scarcely knowing what he said or did, he seizedIsabella's little hand, impetuously raised his curly head, andenthusiastically exclaimed: "Hear me! your prophecy shall be fulfilled, Belica; I will be an artist. Art, Art alone! The master said everythingelse is vain--trivial. Yes, I feel, I am certain, that the master isright. "

"Yes, yes, " cried Isabella; "you must become a great artist. "

"And if I don't succeed, if I accomplish nothing more than this. . . . "

Here Ulrich suddenly paused, for he remembered that he was going away, perhaps to-morrow, so he continued sadly, in a calmer tone: "Rely uponit; I will do what I can, and whatever happens, you will rejoice, willyou not, if I succeed-and if it should be otherwise. . . . "

"No, no, " she eagerly exclaimed. "You can accomplish everything, andI--I; you don't know how happy it makes me that you can do more than I!"

Again he held out his hand, and as Isabella warmly clasped it, thewatchful duenna's harsh voice cried:

"What does this mean, Senorita? To work, I beg of you. Your father saystime is precious. "

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Time is precious! Magister Kochel had also doubtless said this tohimself, as soon as Ulrich left him the day before. He had been hired bya secret power, with which however he was well acquainted, to watch theNetherland artist and collect evidence for a charge--a gravamen--againsthim. 

The spying and informing, which he had zealously pursued for years in theservice of the Holy Inquisition, he called "serving the Church, " andhoped, sooner or later, to be rewarded with a benefice; but even if thisescaped him, informing brought him as large an income as he required, andhad become the greatest pleasure, indeed, a necessity of life to him. 

He had commenced his career in Cologne as a Dominican friar, and remainedin communication with some of his old brethren of the Order. 

The monks, Sutor and Stubenrauch, whom Moor had hospitably received inhis wagon at the last Advent season but one, sometimes answered Kochel'sletters of enquiry. 

The latter had long known that the unusual favor the king showed theartist was an abomination, not only to the heads of the Holy Inquisition, but also to the ambassadors and court dignitaries, yet Moor's quiet, stainless life afforded no handle for attack. Soon, however, unexpectedaid came to him from a distance. 

A letter arrived, dictated by Sutor, and written by Stubenrauch in thefluent bad Latin used by him and those of his ilk. Among other things itcontained an account of a journey, in which much was said about Moor, whom the noble pair accused of having a heretical and evil mind. Insteadof taking them to the goal of the journey, as he had promised, he haddeserted them in a miserable tavern by the way-side, among rough, godlesslansquenets, as the mother of Moses abandoned her babe. And such a manas this, they had heard with amazement at Cologne, was permitted to boastof the favor of His Most Catholic Majesty, King Philip. Kochel must takeheed, that this leprous soul did not infect the whole flock, like a mangysheep, or even turn the shepherd from the true pasture. 

This letter had induced Kochel to lure Ulrich into the snare. Themonstrous thing learned from the lad that day, capped the climax of allhe had heard, and might serve as a foundation for the charge, that theheretical Netherlander--and people were disposed to regard allNetherlanders as heretics--had deluded the king's mind with magic arts, enslaved his soul and bound him with fetters forged by the Prince ofEvil. 

His pen was swift, and that very evening he went to the palace of theInquisition, with the documents and indictment, but was detained therea long time the following day, to have his verbal deposition recorded. When he left the gloomy building, he was animated with the joyousconviction that he had not toiled in vain, and that the Netherlanderwas a lost man. 

Preparations for departure were secretly made in the painter's rooms inthe Alcazar during the afternoon. Moor was full of anxiety, for one ofthe royal lackeys, who was greatly devoted to him, had told him that adisguised emissary of the Dominicans--he knew him well--had come to thedoor of the studio, and talked there with one of the French servants. This meant as imminent peril as fire under the roof, water rising in thehold of a ship, or the plague in the house. 

Sophonisba had told him that he would hear from her that day, but the sunwas already low in the heavens, and neither she herself nor any messagehad arrived. 

He tried to paint, and finding the attempt useless, gazed into the gardenand at the distant chain of the Guadarrama mountains; but to-day heremained unmoved by the delicate violet-blue mist that floated around thebare, naked peaks of the chain. 

It was wrath and impatience, mingled with bitter disappointment, thatroused the tumult in his soul, not merely the dread of torture and death. 

There had been hours when his heart had throbbed with gratitude toPhilip, and he had believed in his friendship. And now? The king caredfor nothing about him, except his brush. 

He was still standing at the window, lost in gloomy thoughts, whenSophonisba was finally announced. 

She did not come alone, but leaning on the arm of Don Fabrizio diMoncada. During the last hours of the ball the night before she hadvoluntarily given the Sicilian her hand, and rewarded his faithful wooingby accepting his suit. 

Moor was rejoiced--yes, really glad at heart, and expressed his pleasure;nevertheless he felt a sharp pang, and when the baron, in his simple, aristocratic manner, thanked him for the faithful friendship he hadalways shown Sophonisba and her sisters, and then related how graciouslythe queen had joined their hands, he only listened with partialattention, for many doubts and suspicions beset him. 

Had Sophonisba's heart uttered the "yes, " or had she made a heavysacrifice for him and his safety? Perhaps she would find true happinessby the side of this worthy noble, but why had she given herself to himnow, just now? Then the thought darted through his mind, that thewidowed Marquesa Romero, the all-powerful friend of the Grand Inquisitorwas Don Fabrizio's sister. 

Sophonisba had left the conversation to her betrothed husband; but whenthe doors of the brightly-lighted reception-room were opened, and thecandles in the studio lighted, the girl could no longer endure therestraint she had hitherto imposed upon herself, and whispered hurriedly, in broken accents:

"Dismiss the servants, lock the studio, and follow us. "

Moor did as he was requested, and, with the baron, obeyed her request tosearch the anterooms, to see that no unbidden visitor remained. Sheherself raised the curtains and looked up the chimney. 

Moor had rarely seen her so pale. Unable to control the muscles of herface, shoulders and hands, she went into the middle of the room, beckonedthe men to come close to her, raised her fan to her face, and whispered:

"Don Fabrizio and I are now one. God hears me! You, Master, are ingreat peril and surrounded by spies. Some one witnessed yesterday'sincident, and it is now the talk of the town. Don Fabrizio has madeinquiries. There is an accusation against you, and the Inquisition willact upon it. The informers call you a heretic, a sorcerer, who hasbewitched the king. They will seize you to-morrow, or the day after. The king is in a terrible mood. The Nuncio openly asked him whether itwas true, that he had been offered an atrocious insult in your studio. Is everything ready? Can you fly?"

Moor bent his head in assent. 

"Well then, " said the baron, interrupting Sophonisba; "I beg you tolisten to me. I have obtained leave of absence, to go to Sicily toask my father's blessing. It will be no easy matter for me to leavemy happiness, at the moment my most ardent wish is fulfilled--butSophonisba commands and I obey. I obey gladly too, for if I succeed insaving you, a new and beautiful star will adorn the heaven of my memory. "

"Quick, quick!" pleaded Sophonisba, clenching the back of a chair firmlywith her hand. "You will yield, Master; I beseech you, I command you!"

Moor bowed, and Don Fabrizio continued: "We will start at four o'clockin the morning. Instead of exchanging vows of love, we held a council ofwar. Everything is arranged. In an hour my servants will come and askfor the portrait of my betrothed bride; instead of the picture, you willput your baggage in the chest. Before midnight you will come to myapartments. I have passports for myself, six servants, the equerry, anda chaplain. Father Clement will remain safely concealed at my sister's, and you will accompany me in priestly costume. May we rely upon yourconsent?"

"With all the gratitude of a thankful heart, but. . . . "

"But?"

"There is my old servant--and my pupil Ulrich Navarrete. "

"The old man is taciturn, Don Fabrizio!" said Sophonisba. "If he isforbidden to speak at all. . . . He is necessary to the Master. "

"Then he can accompany you, " said the baron. "As for your pupil, he musthelp us secure your flight, and lead the pursuers on a false trail. Theking has honored you with a travelling-carriage. --At half-past elevenorder horses to be put to it and leave the Alcazar. When you arrivebefore our palace, stop it, alight, and remain with me. Ulrich, whomeverybody knows--who has not noticed the handsome, fair-haired lad in hisgay clothes--will stay with the carriage and accompany it along the roadtowards Burgos, as far as it goes. A better decoy than he cannot beimagined, and besides he is nimble and an excellent horseman. Give himyour own steed, the white Andalusian. If the blood-hounds shouldovertake him. . . . "

Here Moor interrupted the baron, saying gravely and firmly: "My grey headwill be too dearly purchased at the cost of this young life. Change thispart of your plan, I entreat you. "

"Impossible!" exclaimed the Sicilian. "We have few hours at ourcommand, and if they don't follow him, they will pursue us, and you willbe lost. "

"Yet. . . . " Moor began; but Sophonisba, scarcely able to command hervoice, interrupted: "He owes everything to--you. I know him. Where ishe?"

"Let us maintain our self-control!" cried the Netherlander. "I do notrely upon the king's mercy, but perhaps in the decisive hour, he willremember what we have been to each other; if Ulrich, on the contrary, robs the irritated lion of his prey and is seized. . . . "

"My sister shall watch over him, " said the baron but Sophonisba tore openthe door, rushed into the studio, and called as loudly as she could:"Ulrich, Ulrich! Ulrich!"

The men followed her, but scarcely had they crossed the threshold, whenthey heard her rap violently at the door of the school-room, and Ulrichasking: "What is it?"

"Open the door!"

Soon after, with pallid face and throbbing heart, he was standing beforethe others, asking: "What am I to do?"

"Save your master!" cried Sophonisba. "Are you a contemptible Wight, or does a true artist's heart beat in your breast? Would you fear to go, perhaps to your death, for this imperilled man?"

"No, no!" cried the youth as joyously as if a hundred-pound weight hadbeen lifted from his breast. "If it costs my life, so much the better!Here I am! Post me where you please, do with me as you will! He hasgiven me everything, and I--I have betrayed him. I must confess, evenif you kill me! I gossiped, babbled--like a fool, a child--about whatI accidentally saw here yesterday. It is my fault, mine, if they pursuehim. Forgive me, master, forgive me! Do with me what you will. Beatme, slay me, and I will bless you. "

As he uttered the last words, the young artist, raising his clasped handsimploringly, fell on his knees before his beloved teacher. Moor benttowards him, saying with grave kindness:

"Rise, poor lad. I am not angry with you. "

When Ulrich again stood before him, he kissed his forehead and continued:

"I have not been mistaken in you. Do you, Don Fabrizio, recommendNavarrete to the Marquesa's protection, and tell him what we desire. It would scarcely redound to his happiness, if the deed, for which myimprudence and his thoughtlessness are to blame, should be revenged onme. It comforts us to atone for a wrong. Whether you save me, Ulrich, or I perish--no matter; you are and always will be, my dear, faithfulfriend. "

Ulrich threw himself sobbing on the artist's breast, and when he learnedwhat was required of him, fairly glowed with delight and eagerness foraction; he thought no greater joy could befall him than to die for theMaster. 

As the bell of the palace-chapel was ringing for evening service, Sophonisba was obliged to leave her friend; for it was her duty to attendthe nocturnus with the queen. 

Don Fabrizio turned away, while she bade Moor farewell. 

"If you desire my happiness, make him happy, " the artist whispered; butshe could find no words to reply, and only nodded silently. 

He drew her gently towards him, kissed her brow, and said: "There is ahard and yet a consoling word Love is divine; but still more divine issacrifice. To-day I am both your friend and father. Remember me to yoursisters. God bless you, child!"

"And you, you!" sobbed the girl. 

Never had any human being prayed so fervently for another's welfare inthe magnificent chapel of the Alcazar, as did Sophonisba Anguisciola onthis evening. Don Fabrizio's betrothed bride also pleaded for peace andcalmness in her own heart, for power to forget and to do her duty. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Half an hour before midnight Moor entered the calash, and UlrichNavarrete mounted the white Andalusian. 

The artist, deeply agitated, had already taken leave of his protege inthe studio, had given him a purse of gold for his travelling-expenses andany other wants, and told him that he would always find with him inFlanders a home, a father, love, and instruction in his art. 

The painter alighted before Don Fabrizio's palace; a short time afterUlrich noisily drew the leather curtain before the partition of thecalash, and then called to the coachman, who had often driven Moor whenhe was unexpectedly summoned to one of the king's pleasure-palaces atnight: "Go ahead!"

They were stopped at the gate, but the guards knew the favorite's calashand fair-haired pupil, and granted the latter the escort he asked for hismaster. So they went forward; at first rapidly, then at a pace easy forthe horses. He told the coachman that Moor had alighted at the secondstation, and would ride with His Majesty to Avila, where he wished tofind the carriage. 

During the whole way, Ulrich thought little of himself, and all the moreof the master. If the pursuers had set out the morning after thedeparture, and followed him instead of Don Fabrizio's party, Moor mightnow be safe. He knew the names of the towns on the road to Valencia andthought: "Now he may be here, now he may be there, now he must beapproaching Tarancon. "

In the evening the calash reached the famous stronghold of Avila where, according to the agreement, Ulrich was to leave the carriage and try tomake his own escape. The road led through the town, which was surroundedby high walls and deep ditches. There was no possibility of going roundit, yet the drawbridges were already raised and the gates locked, so heboldly called the warder and showed his passport. 

An officer asked to see the artist. Ulrich said that he would followhim; but the soldier was not satisfied, and ordered him to alight andaccompany him to the commandant. 

Ulrich struck his spurs into the Andalusian's flanks and tried to go backover the road by which he had come; but the horse had scarcely begun togallop, when a shot was fired, that stretched it on the ground. Therider was dragged into the guard-house as a prisoner, and subjected to asevere examination. 

He was suspected of having murdered Moor and of having stolen his money, for a purse filled with ducats was found on his person. While he wasbeing fettered, the pursuers reached Avila. 

A new examination began, and now trial followed trial, torture, torture. 

Even at Avila a sack was thrown over his head, and only opened, when tokeep him alive, he was fed with bread and water. Firmly bound in a two-wheeled cart, drawn by mules, he was dragged over stock and stones toMadrid. 

Often, in the darkness, oppressed for breath, jolted, bruised, unable tocontrol his thoughts, or even his voice, he expected to perish; yet nofainting-fit, no moment of utter unconsciousness pityingly came to hisrelief, far less did any human heart have compassion on his suffering. 

At last, at last he was unbound, and led, still with his head covered, into a small, dark room. 

Here he was released from the sack, but again loaded with chains. 

When he was left alone and had regained the capacity to think, he feltconvinced that he was in one of the dungeons of the Inquisition. Herewere the damp walls, the wooden bench, the window in the ceiling, ofwhich he had heard. He was soon to learn that he had judged correctly. 

His body was granted a week's rest, but during this horrible week he didnot cease to upbraid himself as a traitor, and execrate the fate whichhad used him a second time to hurl a friend and benefactor into ruin. He cursed himself, and when he thought of the "word" "fortune, fortune!"he gnashed his teeth scornfully and clenched his fist. 

His young soul was darkened, embittered, thrown off its balance. He sawno deliverance, no hope, no consolation. He tried to pray, to God, toJesus Christ, to the Virgin, to the Saints; but they all stood beforehim, in a vision, with lifeless features and paralyzed arms. For him, who had relied on "Fortune, " and behaved like a fool, they felt no pity, no compassion, they would not lend their aid. 

But soon his former energy returned and with it the power to lift hissoul in prayer. He regained them during the torture, on the rack. 

Weeks, months elapsed. Ulrich still remained in the gloomy cell, loadedwith chains, scantily fed on bread and water, constantly looking deathin the face; but a fresh, beautiful spirit of defiance and firmdetermination to live animated the youth, who was now at peace withhimself. On the rack he had regained the right to respect himself, and striven to win the master's praise, the approval of the livingand his beloved dead. 

The wounds on his poor, crushed, mangled hands and feet still burned. The physician had seen them, and when they healed, shook his head inamazement. 

Ulrich rejoiced in his scars, for on the rack and in the Spanish boot, on nails, and the pointed bench, in the iron necklace and with thestifling helmet on his head, he had resolutely refused to betray throughwhom and whither the master had escaped. 

They might come back, burn and spear him; but through him they shouldsurely learn nothing, nothing at all. He was scarcely aware that he hada right to forgiveness; yet he felt he had atoned. 

Now he could think of the past again. The Holy Virgin once more wore hislost mother's features; his father, Ruth, Pellicanus, Moor looked kindlyat him. But the brightest light shone into his soul through the darknessof the dungeon, when he thought of art and his last work. It stoodbefore him distinctly in brilliant hues, feature for feature, as on thecanvas; he esteemed himself happy in having painted it, and wouldwillingly have gone to the rack once, twice, thrice, if he could merelyhave obtained the certainty of creating other pictures like this, andperhaps still nobler, more beautiful ones. 

Art! Art! Perhaps this was the "word, " and if not, it was the highest, most exquisite, most precious thing in life, beside which everything elseseemed small, pitiful and insipid. With what other word could God havecreated the world, human beings, animals, and plants? The doctor hadoften called every flower, every beetle, a work of art, and Ulrich nowunderstood his meaning, and could imagine how the Almighty, with thethirst for creation and plastic hand of the greatest of all artists hadformed the gigantic bodies of the stars, had given the sky its glitteringblue, had indented and rounded the mountains, had bestowed form and coloron everything that runs, creeps, flies, buds and blossoms, and hadfashioned man--created in His own image--in the most majestic form ofall. 

How wonderful the works of God appeared to him in the solitude of thedark dungeon--and if the world was beautiful, was it not the work of HisDivine Art!

Heaven and earth knew no word greater, more powerful, more mighty increating beauty than: Art. What, compared with its gifts, were themiserable, delusive ones of Fortune: gay clothes, spiced dishes, magnificent rooms, and friendly glances from beautiful eyes, that smileon every one who pleases them! He would blow them all into the air, forthe assistance of Art in joyous creating. Rather, a thousand timesrather, would he beg his bread, and attain great things in Art, than riotand revel in good-fortune. 

Colors, colors, canvas, a model like Sophonisba, and success in the realmof Art! It was for these things he longed, these things made him yearnwith such passionate eagerness for deliverance, liberty. 

Months glided by, maturing Ulrich's mind as rapidly as if they had beenyears; but his inclination to retire within himself deepened into intensereserve. 

At last the day arrived on which, through the influence of the MarquesaRomero, the doors of his dungeon opened. 

It was soon after receiving a sharp warning to renounce his obstinacy atthe next examination, that the youth was suddenly informed that he wasfree. The jailer took off his fetters, and helped him exchange hisprison garb for the dress he had worn when captured; then disguised menthrew a sack over his head and led him up and down stairs and acrosspavements, through dust and grass, into the little court-yard of adeserted house in the suburbs. There they left him, and he soon releasedhis head from its covering. 

How delicious God's free air seemed, as his chest heaved with gratefuljoy! He threw out his arms like a bird stretching its wings to fly, thenhe clasped his hands over his brow, and at last, as if a second timepursued, rushed out of the court-yard into the street. The passers-bylooked after him, shaking their heads, and he certainly presented asingular spectacle, for the dress in which he had fled many monthsbefore, had sustained severe injuries on the journey from Avila; his hatwas lost on the way, and had not been replaced by a new one. The cuffsand collar, which belonged to his doublet, were missing, and his thick, fair hair hung in dishevelled locks over his neck and temples; his full, rosy cheeks had grown thin, his eyes seemed to have enlarged, and duringhis imprisonment a soft down had grown on his cheeks and chin. 

He was now eighteen, but looked older, and the grave expression on hisbrow and in his eyes, gave him the appearance of a man. 

He had rushed straight forward, without asking himself whither; now hereached a busy street and checked his career. Was he in Madrid? Yes, for there rose the blue peaks of the Guadarrama chain, which he knewwell. There were the little trees at which the denizen of the BlackForest had often smiled, but which to-day looked large and stately. Nowa toreador, whom he had seen more than once in the arena, strutted past. This was the gate, through which he had ridden out of the city beside themaster's calash. 

He must go into the town, but what should he do there?

Had they restored the master's gold with the clothes?

He searched the pockets, but instead of the purse, found only a few largesilver coins, which he knew he had not possessed at the time of hiscapture. 

In a cook-shop behind the gate he enjoyed some meat and wine after hislong deprivation, and after reflecting upon his situation he decided tocall on Don Fabrizio. 

The porter refused him admittance, but after he had mentioned his name, kindly invited him into the porch, and told him that the baron and hiswife were in the country with the Marquesa Romero. They were expectedback on Tuesday, and would doubtless receive him then, for they hadalready asked about him several times. The young gentleman probably camefrom some foreign country; it was the custom to wear hats in Madrid. 

Ulrich now noticed what he lacked, but before leaving, to supply thewant, asked the porter, if he knew what had become of Master Moor. 

Safe! He was safe! Several weeks before Donna Sophonisba had received aletter sent from Flanders, and Ulrich's companion was well informed, forhis wife served the baroness as 'doncella'. 

Joyously, almost beside himself with pure, heart-cheering delight, thereleased prisoner hurried away, bought himself a new cap, and then soughtthe Alcazar. 

Before the treasury, in the place of old Santo, Carmen's father, stood atall, broad portero, still a young man, who rudely refused himadmittance. 

"Master Moor has not been here for a long time, " said the gate-keeperangrily: "Artists don't wear ragged clothes, and if you don't wish to seethe inside of a guard-house--a place you are doubtless familiar with--youhad better leave at once. "

Ulrich answered the gate-keeper's insulting taunts indignantly andproudly, for he was no longer the yielding boy of former days, and thequarrel soon became serious. 

Just then a dainty little woman, neatly dressed for the eveningpromenade, with the mantilla on her curls, a pomegranate blossom in herhair, and another on her bosom, came out of the Alcazar. Waving her fan, and tripping over the pavement like a wag-tail, she came directly towardsthe disputants. 

Ulrich recognized her instantly; it was Carmen, the pretty embroiderer ofthe shell-grotto in the park, now the wife of the new porter, who hadobtained his dead predecessor's office, as well as his daughter. 

"Carmen!" exclaimed Ulrich, as soon as he saw the pretty little woman, then added confidently. "This young lady knows me. "

"I?" asked the young wife, turning up her pretty little nose, and lookingat the tall youth's shabby costume. "Who are you?"

"Master Moor's pupil, Ulrich Navarrete; don't you remember me?"

"I? You must be mistaken!"

With these words she shut her fan so abruptly, that it snapped loudly, and tripped on. 

Ulrich shrugged his shoulders, then turned to the porter morecourteously, and this time succeeded in his purpose; for the artistCoello's body-servant came out of the treasury, and willingly announcedhim to his master, who now, as court-artist, occupied Moor's quarters. 

Ulrich followed the friendly Pablo into the palace, where every step hemounted reminded him of his old master and former days. 

When he at last stood in the anteroom, and the odor of the fresh oil-colors, which were being ground in an adjoining room, reached hisnostrils, he inhaled it no less eagerly than, an hour before, he hadbreathed the fresh air, of which he had been so long deprived. 

What reception could he expect? The court-artist might easily shrinkfrom coming in contact with the pupil of Moor, who had now lost thesovereign's favor. Coello was a very different man from the Master, achild of the moment, varying every day. Sometimes haughty and repellent, on other occasions a gay, merry companion, who had jested with his ownchildren and Ulrich also, as if all were on the same footing. If today. . . . But Ulrich did not have much time for such reflections; a few minutesafter Pablo left, the door was torn open, and the whole Coello familyrushed joyously to meet him; Isabella first. Sanchez followed closebehind her, then came the artist, next his stout, clumsy wife, whomUlrich had rarely seen, because she usually spent the whole day lyingon a couch with her lap-dog. Last of all appeared the duenna Catalina, a would-be sweet smile hovering around her lips. 

The reception given him by the others was all the more joyous andcordial. 

Isabella laid her hands on his arm, as if she wanted to feel that it wasreally he; and yet, when she looked at him more closely, she shook herhead as if there was something strange in his appearance. Sanchezembraced him, whirling him round and round, Coello shook hands, murmuringmany kind words, and the mother turned to the duenna, exclaiming:

"Holy Virgin! what has happened to the pretty boy? How famished helooks! Go to the kitchen instantly, Catalina, and tell Diego to bringhim food--food and drink. "

At last they all pulled and pushed him into the sitting-room, where themother immediately threw herself on the couch again; then the othersquestioned him, making him tell them how he had fared, whence he came, and many other particulars. 

He was no longer hungry, but Senora Petra insisted upon his seatinghimself near her couch and eating a capon, while he told his story. 

Every face expressed sympathy, approval, pity, and at last Coello said:

"Remain here, Navarrete. The king longs for Moor, and you will be assafe with us, as if you were in Abraham's lap. We have plenty for you todo. You come to me as opportunely, as if you had dropped from the skies. I was just going to write to Venice for an assistant. Holy Jacob!You can't stay so, but thanks to the Madonna and Moor, you are not poor. We have ample means, my young sir. Donna Sophonisba gave me a hundredzechins for you; they are lying in yonder chest, and thank Heaven, haven't grown impatient by waiting. They are at your disposal. Yourmaster, my master, the noble master of all portrait-painters, our belovedMoor arranged it. You won't go about the streets in this way any longer. Look, Isabella; this sleeve is hanging by two strings, and the elbow ispeering out of the window. Such a dress is airy enough, certainly. Takehim to the tailor's at once, Sanchez, Oliverio, or. . . . . But no, no;we'll all stay together to-day. Herrera is coming from the Escurial. You will endure the dress for the sake of the wearer, won't you, ladies?Besides, who is to choose the velvet and cut for this young dandy?He always wore something unusual. I can still see the master's smile, provoked by some of the lad's new contrivances in puffs and slashes. Itis pleasant to have you here, my boy! I ought to slay a calf, as thefather did for the prodigal son; but we live in miniature. Instead ofneat-cattle, only a capon!. . . . "

"But you're not drinking, you're not drinking! Isabella, fill his glass. Look! only see these scars on his hands and neck. It will need a greatdeal of lace to conceal them. No, no, they are marks of honor, you mustshow them. Come here, I will kiss this great scar, on your neck, mybrave, faithful fellow, and some day a fair one will follow my example. If Antonio were only here! There's a kiss for him, and another, there, there. Art bestows it, Art, for whom you have saved Moor!"

A master's kiss in the name of Art! It was sweeter than the beautifulCarmen's lips!

Coello was himself an artist, a great painter! Where could his peers befound--or those of Moor, and the architect Herrera, who entered soonafter. Only those, who consecrated their lives to Art, the word ofwords, could be so noble, cheerful, kind. 

How happy he was when he went to bed! how gratefully he told his beloveddead, in spirit, what had fallen to his lot, and how joyously he couldpray!

The next morning he went with a full purse into the city, returningelegantly dressed, and with neatly-arranged locks. The peinador hadgiven his budding moustache a bold twist upward. 

He still looked thin and somewhat awkward, but the tall youth promised tobecome a stately man. 

CHAPTER XX. 

Towards noon Coello called Ulrich into Moor's former studio; the youthcould not fail to observe its altered appearance. 

Long cartoons, containing sketches of figures, large paintings, justcommenced or half-finished, leaned against the easels; mannikins, movablewooden horse's heads, and plaster-models stood on the floor, the tables, and in the windows. Stuffs, garments, tapestries, weapons hung over thebacks of the chairs, or lay on chests, tables and the stone-floor. Withered laurel-wreaths, tied with long ribbons, fluttered over themantel-piece; one had fallen, dropped over the bald head of JuliusCaesar, and rested on the breast. 

The artist's six cats glided about among the easels, or stretched theirlimbs on costly velvet and Arabian carpets. 

In one corner stood a small bed with silk curtains--the nursery of themaster's pets. A magnificent white cat was suckling her kittens in it. 

Two blue and yellow cockatoos and several parrots swung screaming inbrass hoops before the open window, and Coello's coal-black negro creptabout, cleaning the floor of the spacious apartment, though it wasalready noon. While engaged in this occupation, he constantly shook hiswoolly head, displaying his teeth, for his master was singing loudly athis work, and the gaily-clad African loved music. 

What a transformation bad taken place in the Netherlander's quiet, orderly, scrupulously neat studio! But, even amid this confusion, admirable works were created; nay, the Spaniard possessed a much morevivid imagination, and painted pictures, containing a larger number offigures and far more spirited than Moor's, though they certainly were notpervaded by the depth and earnestness, the marvellous fidelity to nature, that characterized those of Ulrich's beloved master. 

Coello called the youth to the easel, and pointing to the sketches incolor, containing numerous figures, on which he was painting, said:

"Look here, my son. This is to be a battle of the Centaurs, these areParthian horsemen;--Saint George and the Dragon, and the Crusaders arenot yet finished. The king wants the Apocalyptic riders too. Deuce takeit! But it must be done. I shall commence them to-morrow. They areintended for the walls and ceiling of the new winter riding-school. Oneperson gets along slowly with all this stuff, and I--I. . . . . The ordersoppress me. If a man could only double, quadruple himself! Diana ofEphesus had many breasts, and Cerberus three heads, but only two handshave grown on my wrists. I need help, and you are just the person togive it. You have had nothing to do with horses yet, Isabella tells me;but you are half a Centaur yourself. Set to work on the steeds now, andwhen you have progressed far enough, you shall transfer these sketches tothe ceiling and walls of the riding-school. I will help you perfect thething, and give it the finishing touch. "

This invitation aroused more perplexity than pleasure in Ulrich's mind, for it was not in accordance with Moor's opinions. Fear of his fellow-men no longer restrained him, so he frankly said that he would rathersketch industriously from nature, and perhaps would do well to seek Moorin Flanders. Besides, he was afraid that Coello greatly overrated hispowers. 

But the Spaniard eagerly cut him short:

"I have seen your portrait of Sophonisba. You are no longer a pupil, but a rising artist. Moor is a peerless portrait-painter, and you haveprofited greatly by his teaching. But Art has still higher aims. Everyliving thing belongs to her. The Venus, the horse. . . . Which of those twopictures won Apelles the greater fame? Not only copying, but creatingoriginal ideas, leads to the pinnacle of art. Moor praised your vividimagination. We must use what we possess. Remember Buonarotti, Raphael!Their compositions and frescos, have raised their names above all others. Antonio has tormented you sufficiently with drawing lifeless things. When you transfer these sketches, many times enlarged, to a broadsurface, you will learn more than in years of copying plaster-casts. Aman must have talent, courage and industry; everything else comes of itsown accord, and thank Heaven, you're a lucky fellow! Look at my horses--they are not so bad, yet I never sketched a living one in my life till Iwas commissioned to paint His Majesty on horseback. You shall have abetter chance. Go to the stables and the old riding-school to-morrow. First try noble animals, then visit the market and shambles, and see howthe knackers look. If you make good speed, you shall soon see the firstducats you yourself have earned. " The golden reward possessed littletemptation for Ulrich, but he allowed himself to be persuaded by hissenior, and drew and painted horses and mares with pleasure and success, working with Isabella and Coello's pupil, Felice de Liano, when theysketched and painted from living models. When the scaffolding waserected in the winter riding-school, he went there under the court-artist's direction, to measure, arrange and finally transfer thepainter's sketches to the wide surfaces. 

He did this with increasing satisfaction, for though Coello's sketchespossessed a certain hardness, they were boldly devised and pleased him. 

The farther he progressed, the more passionately interested he became inhis work. To create on a grand scale delighted him, and the fullyoccupied life, as well as the slight fatigue after his work was done, which was sweetened by the joy of labor accomplished, were all beautiful, enjoyable things; yet Ulrich felt that this was not exactly the rightcourse, that a steeper, more toilsome path must lead to the height hedesired to attain. 

He lacked the sharp spurring to do better and better, the censure of amaster, who was greatly his superior. Praise for things, which did notsatisfy himself, vexed him and roused his distrust. 

Isabella, and--after his return--Sophonisba, were his confidantes. 

The former had long felt what he now expressed. Her young heart clung tohim, but she loved in him the future great artist as much as the man. Itwas certainly no light matter for her to be deprived of Ulrich's society, yet she unselfishly admitted that her father, in the vast works he hadundertaken, could not be a teacher like Moor, and it would probably bebest for him to seek his old master in Flanders, as soon as his task inthe riding-school was completed. 

She said this, because she believed it to be her duty, though sadly andanxiously; but he joyously agreed with her, for Sophonisba had handed hima letter from the master, in which the latter cordially invited him tocome to Antwerp. 

Don Fabrizio's wife summoned him to her palace, and Ulrich found her askind and sympathizing as when she had been a girl, but her gay, playfulmanner had given place to a more quiet dignity. 

She wished to be told in detail all he had suffered for Moor, how heemployed himself, what he intended to do in the future; and she evensought him more than once in the riding-school, watched him at his work, and examined his drawings and sketches. 

Once she induced him to tell her the story of his youth. 

This was a boon to Ulrich; for, although we keep our best treasures mostclosely concealed, yet our happiest hours are those in which, with thecertainty of being understood, we are permitted to display them. 

The youth could show this noble woman, this favorite of the Master, thisartist, what he would not have confided to any man, so he permuted her tobehold his childhood, and gaze deep into his soul. 

He did not even hide what he knew about the "word"--that he believed hehad found the right one in the dungeon, and that Art would remain hisguiding star, as long as he lived. 

Sophonisba's cheeks flushed deeper and deeper, and never had he seen herso passionately excited, so earnest and enthusiastic, as now when sheexclaimed:

"Yes, Ulrich, yes! You have found the right word!

"It is Art, and no other. Whoever knows it, whoever serves it, whoeverimpresses it deeply on his soul and only breathes and moves in it, nolonger has any taint of baseness; he soars high above the earth, andknows nothing of misery and death. It is with Art the Divinity bridgesspace and descends to man, to draw him up ward to brighter worlds. Thisword transfigures everything, and brings fresh green shoots even from thedry wood of souls defrauded of love and hope. Life is a thorny rose-bush, and Art its flower. Here Mirth is melancholy--Joy is sorrowfuland Liberty is dead. Here Art withers and--like an exotic--is preventedperishing outright only by artificial culture. But there is a land, Iknow it well, for it is my home--where Art buds and blossoms and throwsits shade over all the highways. Favorite of Antonio, knight of theWord--you must go to Italy!"

Sophonisba had spoken. He must go to Italy. The home of Titian!Raphael! Buonarotti! where also the Master went to school. 

"Oh, Word, Word!" he cried exultingly in his heart. "What other candisclose, even on earth, such a glimpse of the joys of Paradise. "

When he left Sophonisba, he felt as if he were intoxicated. 

What still detained him in Madrid?

Moor's zechins were not yet exhausted, and he was sure of the assistanceof the "word" upon the sacred soil of Italy. 

He unfolded his plan to Coello without delay, at first modestly, thenfirmly and defiantly. But the court-artist would not let him go. Heknew how to maintain his composure, and even admitted that Ulrich musttravel, but said it was still too soon. He must first finish the work hehad undertaken in the riding-school, then he himself would smooth the wayto Italy for him. To leave him, so heavily burdened, in the lurch now, would be treating him ungratefully and basely. 

Ulrich was forced to acknowledge this, and continued to paint on thescaffold, but his pleasure in creating was spoiled. He thought ofnothing but Italy. 

Every hour in Madrid seemed lost. His lofty purposes were unsettled, andhe began to seek diversion for his mind, especially at the fencing-schoolwith Sanchez Coello. 

His eye was keen, his wrist pliant, and his arm was gaining more and moreof his father's strength, so he soon performed extraordinary feats. 

His remarkable skill, his reserved nature, and the natural charm of hismanner soon awakened esteem and regard among the young Spaniards, withwhom he associated. 

He was invited to the banquets given by the wealthier ones, and to jointhe wild pranks, in which they sometimes indulged, but spite ofpersuasions and entreaties, always in vain. 

Ulrich needed no comrades, and his zechins were sacred to him; he waskeeping them for Italy. 

The others soon thought him an odd, arrogant fellow, with whom nofriendly ties could be formed, and left him to his own resources. Hewandered about the streets at night alone, serenaded fair ladies, andcompelled many gentlemen, who offended him, to meet him in single combat. 

No one, not even Sanchez Coello, was permitted to know of these nocturnaladventures; they were his chief pleasure, stirred his blood, and gave himthe blissful consciousness of superior strength. 

This mode of life increased his self-confidence, and expressed itself inhis bearing, which gained a touch of the Spanish air. He was now fullygrown, and when he entered his twentieth year, was taller than mostCastilians, and carried his head as high as a grandee. 

Yet he was dissatisfied with himself, for he made slow progress in hisart, and cherished the firm conviction that there was nothing more forhim to learn in Madrid; Coello's commissions were robbing him of the mostprecious time. 

The work in the riding-school was at last approaching completion. It hadoccupied far more than the year in which it was to have been finished, and His Majesty's impatience had become so great, that Coello wascompelled to leave everything else, to paint only there, and put hisimproving touches to Ulrich's labor. 

The time for departure was drawing near. The hanging-scaffold, on whichhe had lain for months, working on the master's pictures, had beenremoved, but there was still something to be done to the walls. 

Suddenly the court-artist was ordered to suspend the work, and have thebeams, ladders and boards, which narrowed the space in the picadero, --[Riding School]--removed. 

The large enclosure was wanted during the next few days for a specialpurpose, and there were new things for Coello to do. 

Don Juan of Austria, the king's chivalrous half-brother, had commencedhis heroic career, and vanquished the rebellious Moors in Granada. Amagnificent reception was to be prepared for the young conqueror, andCoello received the commission to adorn a triumphal arch with hastily-sketched, effective pictures. 

The designs were speedily completed, and the triumphal arch erected ina court-yard of the Alcazar, for here, within the narrow circle of thecourt, not publicly, before the whole population, had the suspiciousmonarch resolved to receive and honor the victor. 

Ulrich had again assisted Coello in the execution of his sketches. Everything was finished at the right time, and Don Juan's receptionbrilliantly carried out with great pomp and dignity, through the wholeprogramme of a Te Deum and three services, processions, bull-fights, agrand 'Auto-da-fe', and a tournament. 

After this festival, the king again resigned the riding-school to theartists, who instantly set to work. Everything was finished except thesmall figures at the bottom of the larger pictures, and these could beexecuted without scaffolding. 

Ulrich was again standing on the ladder, for the first time after thisinterruption, and Coello had just followed him into the picadero, when agreat bustle was heard outside. 

The broad doors flew open, and the manege was soon filled with knightsand ladies on foot and horseback. 

The most brilliant figures in all the stately throng were Don Juanhimself, and his youthful nephew, Alexander Farnese, Prince of Parma. 

Ulrich feasted his eyes on the splendid train, and the majestic, haughty, yet vivacious manner of the conqueror. 

Never in his life, he thought, had he seen a more superb youthful figure. Don Juan stopped directly opposite to him, and bared his head. Thethick, fair hair brushed back behind his ears, hung in wonderfully soft, waving locks down to his neck, and his features blended feminine gracewith manly vigor. 

As, hat in hand, he swung himself from the saddle, unassisted, to greetthe fair duchess of Medina Celi, there was such a charm in his movements, that the young artist felt inclined to believe all the tales related ofthe successful love affairs of this favorite of fortune, who was the sonof the Emperor Charles, by a German washerwoman. 

Don Juan graciously requested his companion to retire to the back of themanege, assisted the ladies from their saddles and, offering his hand tothe duchess, led her to the dais, then returning to the ring, he issuedsome orders to the mounted officers in his train, and stood conversingwith the ladies, Alexander Farnese, and the grandees near him. 

Loud shouts and the tramp of horses hoofs were now heard outside of thepicadero, and directly after nine bare-backed horses were led into thering, all selected animals of the best blood of the Andalusian breed, the pearls of all the horses Don Juan had captured. 

Exclamations and cries of delight echoed through the building, growinglouder and warmer, when the tenth and last prize, a coal-black youngstallion, dragged the sinewy Moors that led him, into the ring, andrearing lifted them into the air with him. 

The brown-skinned young fellows resisted bravely; but Don Juan turning toAlexander Farnese, said: "What a superb animal! but alas, alas, he has adevilish temper, so we have called him Satan. He will bear neithersaddle nor rider. How dare I venture. . . . There he rears again. . . . It isquite impossible to offer him to His Majesty. Just look at those eyes, those crimson nostrils. A perfect monster!"

"But there cannot be a more beautiful creature! "cried the prince, warmly. "That shining black coat, the small head, the neck, the croup, the carriage of his tail, the fetlocks and hoofs. Oh, oh, that wasserious!" The vicious stallion had reared for the third time, pawingwildly with his fore-legs, and in so doing struck one of the Moors. Shrieking and wailing, the latter fell on the ground, and directly afterthe animal released itself from the second groom, and now dashed freely, with mighty leaps, around the course, rushing hither and thither as ifmad, kicking furiously, and hurling sand and dust into the faces of theladies on the dais. The latter shrieked loudly, and their screamsincreased the animal's furious excitement. Several gentlemen drew back, and the master of the horse loudly ordered the other barebacked steeds tobe led away. 

Don Juan and Alexander Farnese stood still; but the former drew hissword, exclaiming, vehemently:

"Santiago! I'll kill the brute!"

He was not satisfied with words, but instantly rushed upon the stallion;the latter avoiding him, bounded now backward, now sideways, at everyfresh leap throwing sand upon the dais. 

Ulrich could remain on the ladder no longer. 

Fully aware of his power over refractory horses, he boldly entered thering and walked quietly towards the snorting, foaming steed. Driving theanimal back, and following him, he watched his opportunity, and as Satanturned, reached his side and boldly seized his nostrils firmly with hishand. 

Satan plunged more and more furiously, but the smith's son held him asfirmly as if in a vise, breathed into his nostrils, and stroked his headand muzzle, whispering soothing words. 

The animal gradually became quieter, tried once more to release himselffrom his tamer's iron hand, and when he again failed, began to trembleand meekly stood still with his fore legs stretched far apart. 

"Bravo! Bravamente!" cried the duchess, and praise from such lipsintoxicated Ulrich. The impulse to make a display, inherited from hismother, urged him to take still greater risks. Carefully winding hisleft hand in the stallion's mane, he released his nostrils and swunghimself on his back. Taken by surprise Satan tried to rid himself of hisburden, but the rider sat firm, leaned far over the steed's neck, stroked--his head again, pressed his flanks and, after the lapse of a fewminutes, guided him merely by the pressure of his thighs first at a walk, then at a trot over the track. At last springing off, he patted Satan, who pranced peacefully beside him, and led him by the bridle to Don Juan. 

The latter measured the tall, brave fellow with a hasty glance, andturning, half to him, half to Alexander Farnese, said:

"An enviable trick, and admirable performance, by my love!"

Then he approached the stallion, stroked and patted his shining neck, andcontinued:

"I thank you, young man. You have saved my best horse. But for you Ishould have stabbed him. You are an artist?"

"At your service, Your Highness. "

"Your art is beautiful, and you alone know how it suits you. But muchhonor, perhaps also wealth and fame, can be gained among my troopers. Will you enlist?"

"No, Your Highness, " replied Ulrich, with a low bow. "If I were not anartist, I should like best to be a soldier; but I cannot give up my art. "

"Right, right! Yet. . . . Do you think your cure of Satan will be lasting;or will the dance begin again to-morrow?"

"Perhaps so; but grant me a week, Your Highness, and the swarthy fellowscan easily manage him. An hour's training like this every morning, andthe work will be accomplished. Satan will scarcely be transformed intoan angel, but probably will become a perfectly steady horse. "

"If you succeed, " replied Don Juan, joyously, "you will greatly obligeme. Come to me next week. If you bring good tidings. . . . Considermeantime, how I can serve you. "

Ulrich did not need to consider long. A week would pass swiftly, andthen--then the king's brother should send him to Italy. Even his enemiesknew that he was liberal and magnanimous. 

The week passed away, the horse was tamed and bore the saddle quietly. Don Juan received Ulrich's petition kindly, and invited him to make thejourney on the admiral's galley, with the king's ambassador and hissecretary, de Soto. 

The very same day the happy artist obtained a bill of exchange on a houseon the Rialto, and now it was settled, he was going to Italy. 

Coello was obliged to submit, and his kind heart again showed itself; forhe wrote letters of introduction for Ulrich to his old artist friends inVenice, and induced the king to send the great Titian a present--whichthe ambassador was to deliver. The court-artist obtained from the lattera promise to present his pupil Navarrete to the grey-Haired prince ofartists. 

Everything was now ready for departure; Ulrich again packed hisbelongings in the studio, but with very different feelings from the firsttime. 

He was a man, he now knew what the right "word" was, life lay open beforehim, and the paradise of Art was about to unclose its gates. 

The studies he had finished in Madrid aroused his compassion; in Italy hewould first really begin to become an artist: there work must bring himwhat it had here denied: satisfaction, success! Gay as a boy, halffrantic with joy, happiness and expectation, he crushed the sketches, which seemed to him too miserable, into the waste-paper basket with amaul-stick. 

During this work of destruction, Isabella entered the room. 

She was now sixteen. Her figure had developed early, but remainedpetite. Large, deep, earnest eyes looked forth from the little roundface, and the fresh, tiny mouth could not help pleasing everyone. Herhead now reached only to Ulrich's breast, and if he had always treatedher like a dear, sensible, clever child, her small stature had certainlybeen somewhat to blame for it. To-day she was paler than usual and herfeatures were so grave, that the young man asked her in surprise, yetfull of sympathy:

"What is the matter, little one? Are you not well?"

"Yes, yes, " she answered, quickly, "only I must talk with you once morealone. "

"Do you wish to hear my confession, Belita?"

"Cease jesting now. I am no longer a child. My heart aches, and I mustnot conceal the cause. "

"Speak, speak! How you look! One might really be alarmed. "

"If I only can! No one here tells you the truth; but I--I love you;so I will do it, ere it is too late. Don't interrupt me now, or I shalllose courage, and I will, I must speak. "

"My studies lately have not pleased you; nor me either. Your father. . . . "

"He has led you in false paths, and now you are going to Italy, and whenyou see what the greatest artists have created, you will wish to imitatethem immediately and forget Meister Moor's lessons. I know you, Ulrich, I know it! But I also know something else, and it must now be saidfrankly. If you allow yourself to be led on to paint pictures, if you donot submit to again become a modest pupil, and honestly torment yourselfwith studying, you will make no progress, you will never again accomplisha portrait like the one in the old days, like your Sophonisba. You willthen be no great artist and you can, you must become one. "

"I will, Belita, I will!"

"Well, well; but first be a pupil! If I were in your place, I would, foraught I care, go to Venice and look about me, but from there I would rideto Flanders, to Moor, to the master. "

"Give up Italy? Can you be in earnest? Your father, himself, told me, that I. . . . . Well, yes. . . . In portrait-painting, he too thinks I am noblunderer. Where do the Netherlanders go to learn anything new? ToItaly, always to Italy! What do they create in Flanders? Portraits, portraits, nothing more. Moor is great, very great in this department, but I take a very different view of art; it has higher aims. My head isfull of plans. Wait, only wait! In Italy I shall learn to fly, and whenI have finished my Holy Family and my Temple of Art, with all the skillI intend to attain. . . . "

"Then, then, what will happen then?"

"Then you will perhaps change your opinion and cease your tutoring, oncefor all. This fault-finding, this warning vexes me. It spoils mypleasure, it clouds my fancy. You are poisoning my happiness, you--you. . . . The croaker's voice is disagreeable to me. "

Isabella sadly bent her head in silence. Ulrich approached her, saying:

"I do not wish to wound you, Belita; indeed, I do not. You mean well, and you love me, a poor forsaken fellow; do you not, little girl?"

"Yes, Ulrich, and that is just why I have told you what I think. You arerejoicing now in the thought of Italy. . . . "

"Very, very much, unspeakably! There, too, I will remember you, and whata dear, faithful, wise little creature you are. Let us part infriendship, Isabella. Come with me; that would be the best way!"

The young girl flushed deeply, and made no answer except: "How gladly Iwould!"

The words sounded so affectionate and came so tenderly from the inmostdepths of the heart, that they entered his soul. And while she spoke, her eyes gazed so faithfully, lovingly, and yearningly into his, that hesaw nothing else. He read in them love, true, self-sacrificing love; notlike pretty Carmen's or that given by the ladies, who had thrown flowersto him from their balconies. His heart swelled, and when he saw how theflush on Isabella's dear face deepened under his answering glance, unspeakable gratitude and joy seized upon him, and he could not helpclasping her in his arms and drawing her into his embrace. 

She permitted it, and when she looked up at him and her soft scarletlips, from which gleamed two rows of dazzling white teeth, bloomedtemptingly near him, he bent his, he knew not how, towards them. Theykissed each other again and again, and Isabella flung her little handsaround his neck, for she could not reach him with her arms, and said shehad always loved him; he assured her in an agitated voice that hebelieved it, and that there was no better, sweeter, brighter creature onearth than she; only he forgot to say that he loved her. She gave, hereceived, and it seemed to him natural. 

She saw and felt nothing except him and her happiness; he was whollyabsorbed by the bliss of being loved and the sweetness of her kiss; soneither noticed that Coello had opened the door and watched them for aminute, with mingled wrath and pleasure, irresolutely shaking his head. 

When the court-artist's deep voice exclaimed loudly:

"Why, why, these are strange doings!" they hastily started back. 

Startled, sobered, confused, Ulrich sought for words, and at laststammered:

"We have, we wanted. . . . The farewell. . . . Coello found no time tointerrupt him, for his daughter had thrown herself on his breast, exclaiming amid tears:

"Forgive us, father-forgive us; he loves me, and I, I love him so dearly, and now that we belong to each other, I am no longer anxious about him, he will not rest, and when he returns. . . . "

"Enough, enough!" interrupted Coello, pressing his hand upon her mouth. "That is why a duenna is kept for the child; and this is my sensibleBelita! It is of no importance, that yonder youth has nothing, I myselfcourted your mother with only three reales in my pocket, but he cannotyet do any really good work, and that alters the case. It is not my wayto dun debtors, I have been in debt too often myself for that; but you, Navarrete, have received many favors from me, when you were badly off, and if you are not a scamp, leave the girl in peace and do not see heragain before your departure. When you have studied in Italy and become areal artist, the rest will take care of itself. You are already ahandsome, well-formed fellow, and my race will not degenerate in you. There are very different women in Italy, from this dear little creaturehere. Shut your eyes, and beware of breaking her heart. Your promise!Your hand upon it! In a year and a half from to-day come here again, show what you can do, and stand the test. If you have become what Ihope, I'll give her to you; if not, you can quietly go your way. Youwill make no objection to this, you silly little, love-sick thing. Go to your room now, Belita, and you, Navarrete, come with me. "

Ulrich followed the artist to his chamber, where the latter opened achest, in which lay the gold he had earned. He did not know himself, how much it was, for it was neither counted, nor entered in books. Grasping the ducats, he gave Ulrich two handfuls, exclaiming:

"This one is for your work here, the other to relieve you from any careconcerning means of living, while pursuing your studies in Venice andFlorence. Don't make the child wretched, my lad; if you do, you will bea contemptible, dishonorable rascal, a scoundrel, a. . . . But you don'tlook like a rogue!"

There was a great deal of bustle in Coello's house that evening. Theartist's indolent wife was unusually animated. She could not control hersurprise and wrath. Isabella had been from childhood a great favorite ofHerrera, the first architect in Spain, who had already expressed his lovefor the young girl, and now this vagabond pauper, this immature boy, hadcome to destroy the prosperity of her child's life. 

She upbraided Coello with being faithless to his paternal duty, andcalled him a thoughtless booby. Instead of turning the ungrateful rascalout of the house, he, the dunce, had given him hopes of becoming herpoor, dazzled, innocent daughter's husband. During the ensuing weeks, Senora Petra prepared Coello many bad days and still worse nights; butthe painter persisted in his resolution to give Isabella to Ulrich, if ina year and a half he returned from Italy a skilful artist. 

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