A WORD, ONLY A WORD, Complete

By Georg Ebers

Translated from the German by Mary J. Safford

CHAPTER I. 

"A word, only a word!" cried a fresh, boyish voice, then two handswere loudly clapped and a gay laugh echoed through the forest. Hithertosilence had reigned under the boughs of the pines and tops of thebeeches, but now a wood-pigeon joined in the lad's laugh, and a jay, startled by the clapping of hands, spread its brown wings, delicatelyflecked with blue, and soared from one pine to another. 

Spring had entered the Black Forest a few weeks before. May was justover, yet the weather was as sultry as in midsummer and clouds weregathering in denser and denser masses. The sun was still some distanceabove the horizon, but the valley was so narrow that the day star haddisappeared, before making its majestic entry into the portals of night. 

When it set in a clear sky, it only gilded the border of pine trees onthe crest of the lofty western heights; to-day it was invisible, and theoccasional, quickly interrupted twittering of the birds seemed more inharmony with the threatening clouds and sultry atmosphere than the lad'sgay laughter. 

Every living creature seemed to be holding its breath in anxioussuspense, but Ulrich once more laughed joyously, then bracing his bareknee against a bundle of faggots, cried:

"Give me that stick, Ruth, that I may tie it up. How dry the stuff is, and how it snaps! A word! To sit over books all day long for one stupidword--that's just nonsense!"

"But all words are not alike, " replied the girl. 

"Piff is paff, and paff is puff!" laughed Ulrich. "When I snap thetwigs, you always hear them say 'knack, knack, ' and 'knack' is a wordtoo. The juggler Caspar's magpie, can say twenty. "

"But father said so, " replied Ruth, arranging the dry sticks. "He toilshard, but not for gold and gain, to find the right words. You are alwayswanting to know what he is looking for in his big books, so I plucked upcourage to ask him, and now I know. I suppose he saw I was astonished, for he smiled just as he does when you have asked some foolish questionat lessons, and added that a word was no trifling thing and should notbe despised, for God had made the world out of one single word. "

Ulrich shook his head, and after pondering a few minutes, replied. 

"Do you believe that?"

"Father said so, " was the little girl's only answer. Her words expressedthe firm, immovable security of childish confidence, and the samefeeling sparkled in her eyes. She was probably about nine years old, and in every respect a perfect contrast to her companion, her senior byseveral summers, for the latter was strongly built, and from beneathhis beautiful fair locks a pair of big blue eyes flashed defiance at theworld, while Ruth was a delicate little creature, with slender limbs, pale cheeks, and coal-black hair. 

The little girl wore a fashionably-made, though shabby dress, shoes andstockings--the boy was barefoot, and his grey doublet looked scarcelyless worn than the short leather breeches, which hardly reached hisknees; yet he must have had some regard for his outer man, for a redknot of real silk was fastened on his shoulder. He could scarcely be thechild of a peasant or woodland laborer--the brow was too high, the noseand red lips were too delicately moulded, the bearing was too proud andfree. 

Ruth's last words had given him food for thought, but he left themunanswered until the last bundle of sticks was tied up. Then he saidhesitatingly:

"My mother--you know. . . . I dare not speak of her before father, he goesinto such a rage; my mother is said to be very wicked--but she never wasso to me, and I long for her day after day, very, very much, as I longfor nothing else. When I was so high, my mother told me a great manythings, such queer things! About a man, who wanted treasures, and beforewhom mountains opened at a word he knew. Of course it's for such a wordyour father is seeking. "

"I don't know, " replied the little girl. "But the word out of which Godmade the whole earth and sky and all the stars must have been a verygreat one. "

Ulrich nodded, then raising his eyes boldly, exclaimed:

"Ah, if he should find it, and would not keep it to himself, but let youtell me! I should know what I wanted. "

Ruth looked at him enquiringly, but he cried laughingly: "I shan't tell. But what would you ask?"

"I? I should ask to have my mother able to speak again like otherpeople. But you would wish. . . . "

"You can't know what I would wish. "

"Yes, yes. You would bring your mother back home again. "

"No, I wasn't thinking of that, " replied Ulrich, flushing scarlet andfixing his eyes on the ground. 

"What, then? Tell me; I won't repeat it. "

"I should like to be one of the count's squires, and always ride withhim when he goes hunting. "

"Oh!" cried Ruth. "That would be the very thing, if I were a boy likeyou. A squire! But if the word can do everything, it will make you lordof the castle and a powerful count. You can have real velvet clothes, with gay slashes, and a silk bed. "

"And I'll ride the black stallion, and the forest, with all its stagsand deer, will belong to me; as to the people down in the village, I'llshow them!"

Raising his clenched fist and his eyes in menace as he uttered thewords, he saw that heavy rain-drops were beginning to fall, and athunder-shower was rising. 

Hastily and skilfully loading himself with several bundles of faggots, he laid some on the little girl's shoulders, and went down with hertowards the valley, paying no heed to the pouring rain, thunder orlightning; but Ruth trembled in every limb. 

At the edge of the narrow pass leading to the city they stood still. The moisture was trickling down its steep sides and had gathered into areddish torrent on the rocky bottom. 

"Come!" cried Ulrich, stepping on to the edge of the ravine, wherestones and sand, loosened by the wet, were now rattling down. 

"I'm afraid, " answered the little girl trembling. "There's another flashof lightning! Oh! dear, oh, dear! how it blazes!--oh! oh! that clap ofthunder!"

She stooped as if the lightning had struck her, covered her face withher little hands, and fell on her knees, the bundle of faggots slippingto the ground. Filled with terror, she murmured as if she could commandthe mighty word: "Oh, Word, Word, get me home!"

Ulrich stamped impatiently, glanced at her with mingled anger andcontempt, and muttering reproaches, threw her bundle and his own intothe ravine, then roughly seized her hand and dragged her to the edge ofthe cliff. 

Half-walking, half-slipping, with many an unkind word, though he wasalways careful to support her, the boy scrambled down the steep slopewith his companion, and when they were at last standing in the waterat the bottom of the gully, picked up the dripping fagots and walkedsilently on, carrying her burden as well as his own. 

After a short walk through the running water and mass of earth andstones, slowly sliding towards the valley, several shingled roofsappeared, and the little girl uttered a sigh of relief; for in the rowof shabby houses, each standing by itself, that extended from the forestto the level end of the ravine, was her own home and the forge belongingto her companion's father. 

It was still raining, but the thunder-storm had passed as quickly as itrose, and twilight was already gathering over the mist-veiled houses andspires of the little city, from which the street ran to the ravine. Thestillness of the evening was only interrupted by a few scattered notesof bells, the finale of the mighty peal by which the warder had justbeen trying to disperse the storm. 

The safety of the town in the narrow forest-valley was well secured, awall and ditch enclosed it; only the houses on the edge of the ravinewere unprotected. True, the mouth of the pass was covered by the fieldpieces on the city wall, and the strong tower beside the gate, but itwas not incumbent on the citizens to provide for the safety of the rowof houses up there. It was called the Richtberg and nobody lived thereexcept the rabble, executioners, and poor folk who were not granted therights of citizenship. Adam, the smith, had forfeited his, and Ruth'sfather, Doctor Costa, was a Jew, who ought to be thankful that he wastolerated in the old forester's house. 

The street was perfectly still. A few children were jumping over themud-puddles, and an old washerwoman was putting a wooden vessel underthe gutter, to collect the rain-water. 

Ruth breathed more freely when once again in the street and among humanbeings, and soon, clinging to the hand of her father, who had come tomeet her, she entered the house with him and Ulrich. 

CHAPTER II. 

While the boy flung the damp bundles of brushwood on the floor besidethe hearth in the doctor's kitchen, a servant from the monastery wasleading three horses under the rude shed in front of the smith Adam'swork-shop The stately grey-haired monk, who had ridden the strongcream-colored steed, was already standing beside the embers of the fire, pressing his hands upon the warm chimney. 

The forge stood open, but spite of knocking and shouting, neither themaster of the place, nor any other living soul appeared. Adam had goneout, but could not be far away, for the door leading from the shop intothe sitting-room, was also unlocked. 

The time was growing long to Father Benedict, so for occupation he triedto lift the heavy hammer. It was a difficult task, though he was noweakling, yet it was not hard for Adam's arm to swing and guide theburden. If only the man had understood how to govern his life as well ashe managed his ponderous tool!

He did not belong to Richtberg. What would his father have said, had helived to see his son dwell here?

The monk had known the old smith well, and he also knew many thingsabout the son and his destiny, yet no more than rumor entrusts to oneperson concerning another's life. Even this was enough to explain whyAdam had become so reserved, misanthropic and silent a man, though evenin his youth he certainly had not been what is termed a gay fellow. 

The forge where he grew up, was still standing in the market-placeof the little city below; it had belonged to his grandfather andgreat-grandfather. There had never been any lack of custom, to theannoyance of the wise magistrates, whose discussions were disturbed bythe hammering that rang across the ill-paved square to the windowsof the council-chamber; but, on the other hand, the idle hours of thewatchmen under the arches of the ground-floor of the town-hall weresweetened by the bustle before the smithy. 

How Adam had come from the market-place to the Richtberg, is a storyspeedily told. 

He was the only child of his dead parents, and early learned hisfather's trade. When his mother died, the old man gave his son andpartner his blessing, and some florins to pay his expenses, and sent himaway. He went directly to Nuremberg, which the old man praised as thehigh-school of the smith's art, and there remained twelve years. When, at the end of that time, news came to Adam that his father was dead, andhe had inherited the forge on the market-place, he wondered to find thathe was thirty years old, and had gone no farther than Nuremberg. True, everything that the rest of the world could do in the art of forgingmight be learned there. 

He was a large, heavy man, and from childhood had moved slowly andreluctantly from the place where he chanced to be. 

If work was pressing, he could not be induced to leave the anvil, evenwhen evening had closed in; if it was pleasant to sit over the beer, heremained till after the last man had gone. While working, he was as muteas the dead to everything that was passing around him; in the tavernhe rarely spoke, and then said only a few words, yet the young artists, sculptors, workers in gold and students liked to see the stout drinkerand good listener at the table, and the members of his guild onlymarvelled how the sensible fellow, who joined in no foolish pranks, andworked in such good earnest, held aloof from them to keep company withthese hairbrained folk, and remained a Papist. 

He might have taken possession of the shop on the market-place directlyafter his father's death, but could not arrange his departure soquickly, and it was fully eight months before he left Nuremberg. 

On the high-road before Schwabach a wagon, occupied by some strollingperformers, overtook the traveller. They belonged to the better class, for they appeared before counts and princes, and were seven in number. The father and four sons played the violin, viola and reboc, and the twodaughters sang to the lute and harp. The old man invited Adam to takethe eighth place in the vehicle, so he counted his pennies, and roomwas made for him opposite Flora, called by her family Florette. Themusicians were going to the fair at Nordlingen, and the smith enjoyedhimself so well with them, that he remained several days after reachingthe goal of the journey. When he at last went away Florette wept, buthe walked straight on until noon, without looking back. Then he lay downunder a blossoming apple-tree, to rest and eat some lunch, but the lunchdid not taste well; and when he shut his eyes he could not sleep, forhe thought constantly of Florette. Of course! He had parted from her fartoo soon, and an eager longing seized upon him for the young girl, withher red lips and luxuriant hair. This hair was a perfect golden-yellow;he knew it well, for she had often combed and braided it in thetavern-room beside the straw where they all slept. 

He yearned to hear her laugh too, and would have liked to see her weepagain. 

Then he remembered the desolate smithy in the narrow market-place andthe dreary home, recollected that he was thirty years old, and still hadno wife. 

A little wife of his own! A wife like Florette! Seventeen years old, a complexion like milk and blood, a creature full of gayety and joyouslife! True, he was no light-hearted lad, but, lying under the apple-treein the month of May, he saw himself in imagination living happily andmerrily in the smithy by the market-place, with the fair-haired girl whohad already shed tears for him. At last he started up, and because hehad determined to go still farther on this day, did so, though for noother reason than to carry out the plan formed the day before. The nextmorning, before sunrise, he was again marching along the highway, thistime not forward towards the Black Forest, but back to Nordlingen. 

That very evening Florette became his betrothed bride, and the followingTuesday his wife. 

The wedding was celebrated in the midst of the turmoil of the fair. Strolling players, jugglers and buffoons were the witnesses, and therewas no lack of music and tinsel. 

A quieter ceremony would have been more agreeable to the plain citizenand sensible blacksmith, but this purgatory had to be passed to reachParadise. 

On Wednesday he went off in a fair wagon with his young wife, andin Stuttgart bought with a portion of his savings many articles ofhousehold furniture, less to stop the gossips' tongues, of which he tookno heed, than to do her honor in his own eyes. These things, piled highin a wagon of his own, he had sent into his native town as Florette'sdowry, for her whole outfit consisted of one pink and one grass-greengown, a lute and a little white dog. 

A delightful life now began in the smithy for Adam. The gossips avoidedhis wife, but they stared at her in church, and among them she seemed tohim, not unjustly, like a rose amid vegetables. The marriage he had madewas an abomination to respectable citizens, but Adam did not heed them, and Flora appeared to feel equally happy with him. When, before theclose of the first twelvemonth after their wedding, Ulrich was born, the smith reached the summit of happiness and remained there for a wholeyear. 

When, during that time, he stood in the bow-window amid the freshbalsam, auricular and yellow wallflowers holding his boy on hisshoulder, while his wife leaned on his arm, and the pungent odor ofscorched hoofs reached his nostrils, and he saw his journeyman andapprentice shoeing a horse below, he often thought how pleasant it hadbeen pursuing the finer branches of his craft in Nuremberg, and that heshould like to forge a flower again; but the blacksmith's trade was notto be despised either, and surely life with one's wife and child wasbest. 

In the evening he drank his beer at the Lamb, and once, when the surgeonSiedler called life a miserable vale of tears, he laughed in his faceand answered: "To him who knows how to take it right, it is a delightfulgarden. "

Florette was kind to her husband, and devoted herself to her child, so long as he was an infant, with the most self-sacrificing love. Adamoften spoke of a little daughter, who must look exactly like its mother;but it did not come. 

When little Ulrich at last began to run about in the street, themother's nomadic blood stirred, and she was constantly dinning it intoher husband's ears that he ought to leave this miserable place and go toAugsburg or Cologne, where it would be pleasant; but he remained firm, and though her power over him was great, she could not move his resolutewill. 

Often she would not cease her entreaties and representations, and whenshe even complained that she was dying of solitude and weariness, hisveins swelled with wrath, and then she was frightened, fled to her roomand wept. If she happened to have a bold day, she threatened to go awayand seek her own relatives. This displeased him, and he made her feelit bitterly, for he was steadfast in everything, even anger, and when hebore ill-will it was not for hours, but months, nor at such times couldhe be conciliated by coaxing or tears. 

By degrees Florette learned to meet his discontent with a shrug ofher shoulders, and to arrange her life in her own way. Ulrich was hercomfort, pride and plaything, but sporting with him did not satisfy her. 

While Adam was standing behind the anvil, she sat among the flowers inthe bow-window, and the watchmen now looked higher up than the forge, the worthy magistrates no longer cast unfriendly glances at the smith'shouse, for Florette grew more and more beautiful in the quiet life shenow enjoyed, and many a neighboring noble brought his horse to Adam tobe shod, merely to look into the eyes of the artisan's beautiful wife. 

Count von Frohlingen came most frequently of all, and Florette soonlearned to distinguish the hoof-beats of his horse from those of theother steeds, and when he entered the shop, willingly found some pretextfor going there too. In the afternoons she often went with her childoutside the gate, and then always chose the road leading to the count'scastle. There was no lack of careful friends, who warned Adam, but heanswered them angrily, so they learned to be silent. 

Florette had now grown gay again, and sometimes sang like a joyous bird. 

Seven years elapsed, and during the summer of the eighth a scatteredtroop of soldiers came to the city and obtained admission. They werequartered under the arches of the town-hall, but many also lay in thesmithy, for their helmets, breast-plates and other pieces of armorrequired plenty of mending. The ensign, a handsome, proud young fellow, with a dainty moustache, was Adam's most constant customer, and playedvery kindly with Ulrich, when Florette appeared with him. At last theyoung soldier departed, and the very same day Adam was summoned to themonastery, to mend something in the grating before the treasury. 

When he returned, Florette had vanished; "run after the ensign, " peoplesaid, and they were right. Adam did not attempt to wrest her from theseducer; but a great love cannot be torn from the heart like a staffthat is thrust into the ground; it is intertwined with a thousandfibres, and to destroy it utterly is to destroy the heart in which ithas taken root, and with it life itself. When he secretly cursed herand called her a viper, he doubtless remembered how innocent, dear andjoyous she had been, and then the roots of the destroyed affection putforth new shoots, and he saw before his mental vision ensnaring images, of which he felt ashamed as soon as they had vanished. 

Lightning and hail had entered the "delightful garden" of Adam's lifealso, and he had been thrust forth from the little circle of the happyinto the great army of the wretched. 

Purifying powers dwell in undeserved suffering, but no one is madebetter by unmerited disgrace, least of all a man like Adam. He had donewhat seemed to him his duty, without looking to the right or the left, but now the stainless man felt himself dishonored, and with morbidsensitiveness referred everything he saw and heard to his own disgrace, while the inhabitants of the little town made him feel that he had beenill-advised, when he ventured to make a fiddler's daughter a citizen. 

When he went out, it seemed to him--and usually unjustly--as if peoplewere nudging each other; hands, pointing out-stretched fingers athim, appeared to grow from every eye. At home he found nothing butdesolation, vacuity, sorrow, and a child, who constantly tore open theburning, gnawing wounds in his heart. Ulrich must forget "the viper, "and he sternly forbade him to speak of his mother; but not a day passedon which he would not fain have done so himself. 

The smith did not stay long in the house on the market-place. He wishedto go to Freiburg or Ulm, any place where he had not been with her. Apurchaser for the dwelling, with its lucrative business, was speedilyfound, the furniture was packed, and the new owner was to move in onWednesday, when on Monday Bolz, the jockey, came to Adam's workshopfrom Richtberg. The man had been a good customer for years, and boughthundreds of shoes, which he put on the horses at his own forge, for heknew something about the trade. He came to say farewell; he had his ownnest to feather, and could do a more profitable business in the lowlandsthan up here in the forest. Finally he offered Adam his property at avery low price. 

The smith had smiled at the jockey's proposal, still he went tothe Richtberg the very next day to see the place. There stood theexecutioner's house, from which the whole street was probably named. One wretched hovel succeeded another. Yonder before a door, Wilhelm theidiot, on whom the city boys played their pranks, smiled into vacancyjust as foolishly as he had done twenty years ago, here lodged Kathrin, with the big goitre, who swept the gutters; in the three grey huts, fromwhich hung numerous articles of ragged clothing, lived two families ofcharcoal-burners, and Caspar, the juggler, a strange man, whom as a boyhe had seen in the pillory, with his deformed daughters, who in winterwashed laces and in summer went with him to the fairs. 

In the hovels, before which numerous children were playing, livedhonest, but poor foresters. It was the home of want and misery. Onlythe jockey's house and one other would have been allowed to exist in thecity. The latter was occupied by the Jew, Costa, who ten years beforehad come from a distant country to the city with his aged father and adumb wife, and remained there, for a little daughter was born and theold man was afterwards seized with a fatal illness. But the inhabitantswould tolerate no Jews among them, so the stranger moved into theforester's house on the Richtberg which had stood empty because a betterone had been built deeper in the woods. The city treasury could use therent and tax exacted from Jews and demanded of the stranger. The Jewconsented to the magistrate's requirement, but as it soon became knownthat he pored over huge volumes all day long and pursued no business, yet paid for everything in good money, he was believed to be analchemist and sorcerer. 

All who lived here were miserable or despised, and when Adam had leftthe Richtberg he told himself that he no longer belonged among the proudand unblemished and since he felt dishonored and took disgrace in thesame dogged earnest, that he did everything else, he believed the peoplein the Richtberg were just the right neighbors for him. All knew whatit is to be wretched, and many had still heavier disgrace to bear. Andthen! If want drove his miserable wife back to him, this was the rightplace for her and those of her stamp. 

So he bought the jockey's house and well-supplied forge. There would becustomers enough for all he could do there in obscurity. 

He had no cause to repent his bargain. 

The old nurse remained with him and took care of Ulrich, who throveadmirably. His own heart too grew lighter while engaged in designing orexecuting many an artistic piece of work. He sometimes went to thecity to buy iron or coals, but usually avoided any intercourse with thecitizens, who shrugged their shoulders or pointed to their foreheads, when they spoke of him. 

About a year after his removal he had occasion to speak to thefile-cutter, and sought him at the Lamb, where a number of CountFrolinger's retainers were sitting. Adam took no notice of them, but they began to jeer and mock at him. For a time he succeeded incontrolling himself, but when red-haired Valentine went too far, asudden fit of rage overpowered him and he felled him to the floor. Theothers now attacked him and dragged him to their master's castle, wherehe lay imprisoned for six months. At last he was brought before thecount, who restored him to liberty "for the sake of Florette's beautifuleyes. "

Years had passed since then, during which Adam had lived a quiet, industrious life in the Richtberg with his son. He associated withno one, except Doctor Costa, in whom he found the first and only realfriend fate had ever bestowed upon him. 

CHAPTER III. 

Father Benedict had last seen the smith soon after his return fromimprisonment, in the confessional of the monastery. As the monk in hisyouth had served in a troop of the imperial cavalry, he now, spiteof his ecclesiastical dignity, managed the stables of the wealthymonastery, and had formerly come to the smithy in the market-place withmany a horse, but since the monks had become involved in a quarrel withthe city, Benedict ordered the animals to be shod elsewhere. 

A difficult case reminded him of the skilful, half-forgotten artisan;and when the latter came out of the shed with a sack of coal, Benedictgreeted him with sincere warmth. Adam, too, showed that he was glad tosee the unexpected visitor, and placed his skill at the disposal of themonastery. 

"It has grown late, Adam, " said the monk, loosening the belt he wasaccustomed to wear when riding, which had become damp. "The stormovertook us on the way. The rolling and flashing overhead made thesorrel horse almost tear Gotz's hands off the wrists. Three stepssideways and one forward--so it has grown late, and you can't shoe therascal in the dark. "

"Do you mean the sorrel horse?" asked Adam, in a deep, musical voice, thrusting a blazing pine torch into the iron ring on the forge. 

"Yes, Master Adam. He won't bear shoeing, yet he's very valuable. Wehave nothing to equal him. None of us can control him, but you formerlyzounds!. . . You haven't grown younger in the last few years either, Adam!Put on your cap; you've lost your hair. Your forehead reaches down toyour neck, but your vigor has remained. Do you remember how you cleftthe anvil at Rodebach?"

"Let that pass, " replied Adam--not angrily, but firmly. "I'll shoe thehorse early to-morrow; it's too late to-day. "

"I thought so!" cried the other, clasping his hands excitedly. "Youknow how we stand towards the citizens on account of the tolls on thebridges. I'd rather lie on thorns than enter the miserable hole. Thestable down below is large enough! Haven't you a heap of straw for apoor brother in Christ? I need nothing more; I've brought food with me. "

The smith lowered his eyes in embarrassment. He was not hospitable. Nostranger had rested under his roof, and everything that disturbed hisseclusion was repugnant to him. Yet he could not refuse; so he answeredcoldly: "I live alone here with my boy, but if you wish, room can bemade. "

The monk accepted as eagerly, as if he had been cordially invited; andafter the horses and groom were supplied with shelter, followed his hostinto the sitting-room next the shop, and placed his saddle-bags on thetable. 

"This is all right, " he said, laughing, as he produced a roast fowl andsome white bread. "But how about the wine? I need something warm insideafter my wet ride. Haven't you a drop in the cellar?"

"No, Father!" replied the smith. But directly after a second thoughtoccurred to him, and he added: "Yes, I can serve you. "

So saying, he opened the cupboard, and when, a short time after, themonk emptied the first goblet, he uttered a long drawn "Ah!" followingthe course of the fiery potion with his hand, till it rested contentnear his stomach. His lips quivered a little in the enjoyment of theflavor; then he looked benignantly with his unusually round eyes atAdam, saying cunningly:

"If such grapes grow on your pine-trees, I wish the good Lord had givenFather Noah a pine-tree instead of a vine. By the saints! The archbishophas no better wine in his cellar! Give me one little sip more, and tellme from whom you received the noble gift?"

"Costa gave me the wine. "

"The sorcerer---the Jew?" asked the monk, pushing the goblet away. "But, of course, " he continued, in a half-earnest, half-jesting tone, "whenone considers--the wine at the first holy communion, and at the marriageof Cana, and the juice of the grapes King David enjoyed, once lay inJewish cellars!"

Benedict had doubtless expected a smile or approving word from his host, but the smith's bearded face remained motionless, as if he were dead. 

The monk looked less cheerful, as he began again "You ought not togrudge yourself a goblet either. Wine moderately enjoyed makes the heartglad; and you don't look like a contented man. Everything in life hasnot gone according to your wishes, but each has his own cross to bear;and as for you, your name is Adam, and your trials also come from Eve!"

At these words the smith moved his hand from his beard, and began topush the round leather cap to and fro on his bald head. A harsh answerwas already on his lips, when he saw Ulrich, who had paused on thethreshold in bewilderment. The boy had never beheld any guest at hisfather's table except the doctor, but hastily collecting his thoughtshe kissed the monk's hand. The priest took the handsome lad by the chin, bent his head back, looked Adam also in the face, and exclaimed:

"His mouth, nose and eyes he has inherited from your wife, but the shapeof the brow and head is exactly like yours. "

A faint flush suffused Adam's cheeks, and turning quickly to the boy asif he had heard enough, he cried:

"You are late. Where have you been so long?"

"In the forest with Ruth. We were gathering faggots for Dr. Costa. "

"Until now?"

"Rahel had baked some dumplings, so the doctor told me to stay. "

"Then go to bed now. But first take some food to the groom in thestable, and put fresh linen on my bed. Be in the workshop earlyto-morrow morning, there is a horse to be shod. "

The boy looked up thoughtfully and replied: "Yes, but the doctor haschanged the hours; to-morrow the lesson will begin just after sunrise, father. "

"Very well, we'll do without you. Good-night then. "

The monk followed this conversation with interest and increasingdisapproval, his face assuming a totally different expression, for themuscles between his nose and mouth drew farther back, forming with theunderlip an angle turning inward. Thus he gazed with mute reproach atthe smith for some time, then pushed the goblet far away, exclaimingwith sincere indignation:

"What doings are these, friend Adam? I'll let the Jew's wine pass, andthe dumplings too for aught I care, though it doesn't make a Christianchild more pleasing in the sight of God, to eat from the same dishwith those on whom the Saviour's innocent blood rests. But that you, a believing Christian, should permit an accursed Jew to lead a foolishlad. . . . "

"Let that pass, " said the smith, interrupting the excited monk; but thelatter would not be restrained, and only continued still more loudly andfirmly: "I won't be stopped. Was such a thing ever heard of? Abaptized Christian, who sends his own son to be taught by the infidelsoul-destroyer!"

"Hear me, Father!"

"No indeed. It's for you to hear--you! What was I saying? For you, youwho seek for your poor child a soul-destroying infidel as teacher. Doyou know what that is? A sin against the Holy Ghost--the worst of allcrimes. Such an abomination! You will have a heavy penance imposed uponyou in the confessional. "

"It's no sin--no abomination!" replied the smith defiantly. 

The angry blood mounted into the monk's cheeks, and he cried:threateningly: "Oho! The chapter will teach you better to your sorrow. Keep the boy away from the Jew, or. . . "

"Or?" repeated the smith, looking Father Benedict steadily in the face. 

The latter's lips curled still more deeply, as after a pause, hereplied: "Or excommunication and a fitting punishment will fall upon youand the vagabond doctor. Tit for tat. We have grown tender-hearted, andit is long since a Jew has been burned for an example to many. "

These words did not fail to produce an effect, for though Adam was abrave man, the monk threatened him with things, against which he feltas powerless as when confronted with the might of the tempest and thelightning flashing from the clouds. His features now expressed deepmental anguish, and stretching out his hands repellently towards hisguest, he cried anxiously "No, no! Nothing more can happen to me. Noexcommunication, no punishment, can make my present suffering harder tobear, but if you harm the doctor, I shall curse the hour I invited youto cross my threshold. "

The monk looked at the other in surprise and answered in a more gentletone: "You have always walked in your own way, Adam; but whither are yougoing now? Has the Jew bewitched you, or what binds you to him, that youlook, on his account, as if a thunderbolt had struck you? No one shallhave cause to curse the hour he invited Benedict to be his guest. Seeyour way clearly once more, and when you have come to your senses--why, we monks have two eyes, that we may be able to close one when occasionrequires. Have you any special cause for gratitude to Costa?"

"Many, Father, many!" cried the smith, his voice still trembling withonly too well founded anxiety for his friend. "Listen, and when you knowwhat he has done for me, and are disposed to judge leniently, do notcarry what reaches your ears here before the chapter no, Father--Ibeseech you--do not. For if it should be I, by whom the doctor cameto ruin, I--I. . . . " The man's voice failed, and his chest heaved soviolently with his gasping breath, that his stout leathern apron roseand fell. 

"Be calm, Adam, be calm, " said the monk, soothingly answering hiscompanion's broken words. "All shall be well, all shall be well. Sitdown, man, and trust me. What is the terrible debt of gratitude you owethe doctor?"

Spite of the other's invitation, the smith remained standing and withdowncast eyes, began:

"I am not good at talking. You know how I was thrown into a dungeon onValentine's account, but no one can understand my feelings during thattime. Ulrich was left alone here among this miserable rabble with nobodyto care for him, for our old maid-servant was seventy. I had buried mymoney in a safe place and there was nothing in the house except a loafof bread and a few small coins, barely enough to last three days. Thechild was always before my eyes; I saw him ragged, begging, starving. But my anxiety tortured me most, after they had released me and I wasgoing back to my house from the castle. It was a walk of two hours, buteach one seemed as long as St. John's day. Should I find Ulrich or not?What had become of him? It was already dark, when I at last stood beforethe house. Everything was as silent as the grave, and the door waslocked. Yet I must get in, so I rapped with my fingers, and thenpounded with my fist on the door and shutters, but all in vain. FinallySpittellorle--[A nickname; literally: "Hospital Loura. "]--came outof the red house next mine, and I heard all. The old woman had becomeidiotic, and was in the stocks. Ulrich was at the point of death, andDoctor Costa had taken him home. When I heard this, I felt the same asyou did just now; anger seized upon me, and I was as much ashamed asif I were standing in the pillory. My child with the Jew! There was notmuch time for reflection, and I set off at full speed for the doctor'shouse. A light was shining through the window. It was high above thestreet, but as it stood open and I am tall, I could look in and see overthe whole room. At the right side, next the wall, was a bed, where amidthe white pillows lay my boy. The doctor sat by his side, holding thechild's hand in his. Little Ruth nestled to him, asking: 'Well, father?'The man smiled. Do you know him, Pater? He is about thirty years old, and has a pale, calm face. He smiled and said so gratefully, so-sojoyously, as if Ulrich were his own son: 'Thank God, he will be sparedto us!' The little girl ran to her dumb mother, who was sitting by thestove, winding yarn, exclaiming: 'Mother, he'll get well again. I haveprayed for him every day. ' The Jew bent over my child and pressed hislips upon the boy's brow--and I, I--I no longer clenched my fist, andwas so overwhelmed with emotion, that I could not help weeping, as if Iwere still a child myself, and since then, Pater Benedictus, since. . . . "He paused; the monk rose, laid his hand on the smith's shoulder, andsaid:

"It has grown late, Adam. Show me to my couch. Another day will comeearly to-morrow morning, and we should sleep over important matters. Butone thing is settled, and must remain so-under all circumstances: theboy is no longer to be taught by the Jew. He must help you shoe thehorses to-morrow. You will be reasonable!"

The smith made no reply, but lighted the monk to the room where he andhis son usually slept. His own couch was covered with fresh linen forthe guest--Ulrich already lay in his bed, apparently asleep. 

"We have no other room to give you, " said Adam, pointing to the boy; butthe monk was content with his sleeping companions, and after his hosthad left him, gazed earnestly at Ulrich's fresh, handsome face. 

The smith's story had moved him, and he did not go to rest at once, butpaced thoughtfully up and down the room, stepping lightly, that he mightnot disturb the child's slumber. 

Adam had reason to be grateful to the man, and why should there not begood Jews?

He thought of the patriarchs, Moses, Solomon, and the prophets, and hadnot the Saviour himself, and John and Paul, whom he loved above all theapostles, been the children of Jewish mothers, and grown up among Jews?And Adam! the poor fellow had had more than his share of trouble, and hewho believes himself deserted by God, easily turns to the devil. He waswarned now, and the mischief to his son must be stopped once for all. What might not the child hear from the Jew, in these times, when heresywandered about like a roaring lion, and sat by all the roads like asiren. Only by a miracle had this secluded valley been spared the evilteachings, but the peasants had already shown that they grudged thenobles the power, the cities the rich gains, and the priesthood theauthority and earthly possessions, bestowed on them by God. He wasdisposed to let mildness rule, and spare the Jew this time--but only onone condition. 

When he took off his cowl, he looked for a hook on which to hang it, andwhile so doing, perceived on the shelf a row of boards. Taking one down, he found a sketch of an artistic design for the enclosure of a fountain, done by the smith's hand, and directly opposite his bed a linden-woodpanel, on which a portrait was drawn with charcoal. This roused hiscuriosity, and, throwing the light of the torch upon it, he startedback, for it was a rudely executed, but wonderfully life-like head ofCosta, the Jew. He remembered him perfectly, for he had met him morethan once. 

The monk shook his head angrily, but lifted the picture from the shelfand examined more closely the doctor's delicately-cut nose, and thenoble arch of the brow. While so doing, he muttered unintelligiblewords, and when at last, with little show of care, he restored themodest work of art to its old place, Ulrich awoke, and, with a touch ofpride, exclaimed:

"I drew that myself, Father!"

"Indeed!" replied the monk. "I know of better models for a pious lad. You must go to sleep now, and to-morrow get up early and help yourfather. Do you understand?"

So saying, with no gentle hand he turned the boy's head towards thewall. The mildness awakened by Adam's story had all vanished to thewinds. 

Adam allowed his son to practise idolatry with the Jew, and makepictures of him. This was too much. He threw himself angrily on hiscouch, and began to consider what was to be done in this difficultmatter, but sleep soon brought his reflections to an end. 

Ulrich rose very early, and when Benedict saw him again in the light ofthe young day, and once more looked at the Jew's portrait, drawn bythe handsome boy, a thought came to him as if inspired by the saintsthemselves--the thought of persuading the smith to give his son to themonastery. 

CHAPTER IV. 

This morning Pater Benedictus was a totally different person from theman, who had sat over the wine the night before. Coldly and formally heevaded the smith's questions, until the latter had sent his son away. 

Ulrich, without making any objection, had helped his father shoe thesorrel horse, and in a few minutes, by means of a little stroking overthe eyes and nose, slight caresses, and soothing words, rendered therefractory stallion as docile as a lamb. No horse had ever resisted thelad, from the time he was a little child, the smith said, though forwhat reason he did not know. These words pleased the monk, for hewas only too familiar with two fillies, that were perfect fiends forrefractoriness, and the fair-haired boy could show his gratitude for theschooling he received, by making himself useful in the stable. 

Ulrich must go to the monastery, so Benedictus curtly declared with theutmost positiveness, after the smith had finished his work. At midsummera place would be vacant in the school, and this should be reservedfor the boy. A great favor! What a prospect--to be reared there witharistocratic companions, and instructed in the art of painting. Whetherhe should become a priest, or follow some worldly pursuit, could bedetermined later. In a few years the boy could choose without restraint. 

This plan would settle everything in the best possible way. The Jew neednot be injured, and the smith's imperiled son would be saved. The monkwould hear no objections. Either the accusation against the doctorshould be laid before the chapter, or Ulrich must go to the school. 

In four weeks, on St. John's Day, so Benedictus declared, the smith andhis son might announce their names to the porter. Adam must have savedmany florins, and there would be time enough to get the lad shoes andclothes, that he might hold his own in dress with the other scholars. 

During this whole transaction the smith felt like a wild animal in thehunter's toils, and could say neither "yes" nor "no. " The monk did notinsist upon a promise, but, as he rode away, flattered himself that hehad snatched a soul from the claws of Satan, and gained a prize forthe monastery-school and his stable--a reflection that made him verycheerful. 

Adam retrained alone beside the fire. Often, when his heart was heavy, he had seized his huge hammer and deadened his sorrow by hard work; butto-day he let the tool lie, for the consciousness of weakness and lackof will paralyzed his lusty vigor, and he stood with drooping head, asif utterly crushed. The thoughts that moved him could not be exactlyexpressed in words, but doubtless a vision of the desolate forge, wherehe would stand alone by the fire without Ulrich, rose before his mind. Once the idea of closing his house, taking the boy by the hand, andwandering out into the world with him, flitted through his brain. Butthen, what would become of the Jew, and how could he leave this place?Where would his miserable wife, the accursed, lovely sinner, find him, when she sought him again? Ulrich had run out of doors long ago. Hadhe gone to study his lessons with the Jew? He started in terror at thethought. Passing his hands over his eyes, like a dreamer roused fromsleep, he went into his chamber, threw off his apron, cleansed his faceand hands from the soot of the forge, put on his burgher dress, which heonly wore when he went to church or visited the doctor, and entered thestreet. 

The thunder-storm had cleared the air, and the sun shone pleasantly onthe shingled roofs of the miserable houses of the Richtberg. Its rayswere reflected from the little round window-panes, and flickered overthe tree-tops on the edge of the ravine. 

The light-green hue of the fresh young foliage on the beeches glitteredas brightly against the dark pines, as if Spring had made them a tokenof her mastery over the grave companions of Winter; yet even the pineswere not passed by, and where her finger had touched the tips of thebranches in benediction, appeared tender young shoots, fresh as thegrass by the brook, and green as chrysophase and emerald. 

The stillness of morning reigned within the forest, yet it was full oflife, rich in singing, chirping and twittering. Light streamed from theblue sky through the tree-tops, and the golden sunbeams shimmeredand danced over the branches, trunks and ground, as if they had beenprisoned in the woods and could never find their way out. The shadowsof the tall trunks lay in transparent bars on the underbrush, luxuriantmoss, and ferns, and the dew clung to the weeds and grass. 

Nature had celebrated her festival of resurrection at Easter, and theday after the morrow joyous Whitsuntide would begin. Fresh green lifewas springing from the stump of every dead tree; even the rocks affordedsustenance to a hundred roots, a mossy covering and network of thornytendrils clung closely to them. The wild vine twined boldly up many atrunk, fruit was already forming on the bilberry bushes, though itstill glimmered with a faint pink hue amid the green of May. A thousandblossoms, white, red, blue and yellow, swayed on their slender stalks, opened their calixes to the bees, unfolded their stars to deck thewoodland carpet, or proudly stretched themselves up as straight ascandles. Grey fungi had shot up after the refreshing rain, and gatheredround the red-capped giants among the mushrooms. Under, over and aroundall this luxuriant vegetation hopped, crawled, flew, fluttered, buzzedand chirped millions of tiny, short-lived creatures. But who heeds themon a sunny Spring morning in the forest, when the birds are singing, twittering, trilling, pecking, cooing and calling so joyously? Murmuringand plashing, the forest stream dashed down its steep bed over rocks andamid moss-covered stones and smooth pebbles to the valley. The hurryingwater lived, and in it dwelt its gay inhabitants, fresh plants grewalong the banks from source to mouth, while over and around it a thirdspecies of living creatures sunned themselves, fluttered, buzzed andspun delicate silk threads. 

In the midst of a circular clearing, surrounded by dense woods, smoked acharcoal kiln. It was less easy to breathe here, than down in the forestbelow. Where Nature herself rules, she knows how to guard beauty andpurity, but where man touches her, the former is impaired and the lattersullied. 

It seemed as if the morning sunlight strove to check the smoke from thesmouldering wood, in order to mount freely into the blue sky. Littleclouds floated over the damp, grassy earth, rotting tree-trunks, pilesof wood and heaps of twigs that surrounded the kiln. A moss-grown butstood at the edge of the forest, and before it sat Ulrich, talking withthe coal-burner. People called this man "Hangemarx, " and in truth helooked in his black rags, like one of those for whom it is a pity thatNature should deck herself in her Spring garb. He had a broad, peasantface, his mouth was awry, and his thick yellowish-red hair, which inmany places looked washed out or faded, hung so low over his narrowforehead, that it wholly concealed it, and touched his bushy, snow-whitebrows. The eyes under them needed to be taken on trust, they were sowell concealed, but when they peered through the narrow chink betweenthe rows of lashes, not even a mote escaped them. Ulrich was shaping anarrow, and meantime asking the coal-burner numerous questions, and whenthe latter prepared to answer, the boy laughed heartily, for beforeHangemarx could speak, he was obliged to straighten his crooked mouth bythree jerking motions, in which his nose and cheeks shared. 

An important matter was being discussed between the two strangelydissimilar companions. 

After it grew dark, Ulrich was to come to the charcoal-burner again. Marx knew where a fine buck couched, and was to drive it towards theboy, that he might shoot it. The host of the Lamb down in the townneeded game, for his Gretel was to be married on Tuesday. True, Marxcould kill the animal himself, but Ulrich had learned to shoot too, and if the place whence the game came should be noised abroad, thecharcoal-burner, without any scruples of conscience, could swear that hedid not shoot the buck, but found it with the arrow in its heart. 

People called the charcoal-burner a poacher, and he owed his ill-nameof "Hangemarx" to the circumstance that once, though long ago, he hadadorned a gallows. Yet he was not a dishonest man, only he rememberedtoo faithfully the bold motto, which, when a boy, one peasantwood-cutter or charcoal-burner whispered to another:

"Forest, stream and meadow are free. "

His dead father had joined the Bundschuh, --[A peasants' leaguewhich derived its name from the shoe, of peculiar shape, worn by itsmembers. ]--adopted this motto, and clung fast to it and with it, to thebelief that every living thing in the forest belonged to him, as muchas to the city, the nobles, or the monastery. For this faith he hadundergone much suffering, and owed to it his crooked mouth and ill name, for just as his beard was beginning to grow, the father of the reigningcount came upon him, just after he had killed a fawn in the "free"forest. The legs of the heavy animal were tied together with ropes, andMarx was obliged to take the ends of the knot between his teeth like abridle, and drag the carcass to the castle. While so doing his cheekswere torn open, and the evil deed neither pleased him nor speciallystrengthened his love for the count. When, a short time after, therebellion broke out in Stuhlingen, and he heard that everywhere thepeasants were rising against the monks and nobles, he, too, followedthe black, red and yellow banner, first serving with Hans Muller ofBulgenbach, then with Jacklein Rohrbach of Bockingen, and participatingwith the multitude in the overthrow of the city and castle ofNeuenstein. At Weinsberg he saw Count Helfenstein rush upon the spears, and when the noble countess was driven past him to Heilbronn in thedung-cart, he tossed his cap in the air with the rest. 

The peasant was to be lord now; the yoke of centuries was to be broken;unjust imposts, taxes, tithes and villenage would be forever abolished, while the fourth of the twelve articles he had heard read aloud morethan once, remained firmly fixed in his memory "Game, birds and fishevery one is free to catch. " Moreover, many a verse from the Gospel, unfavorable to the rich, but promising the kingdom of heaven to thepoor, and that the last shall be first, had reached his ears. Doubtlessmany of the leaders glowed with lofty enthusiasm for the liberation ofthe poor people from unendurable serfdom and oppression; but when Marx, and men like him, left wife and children and risked their lives, theyremembered only the past, and the injustice they had suffered, and werefull of a fierce yearning to trample the dainty, torturing demons undertheir heavy peasant feet. 

The charcoal-burner had never lighted such bright fires, never tastedsuch delicious meat and spicy wine, as during that period of his life, while vengeance had a still sweeter savor than all the rest. When thecastle fell, and its noble mistress begged for mercy, he enjoyed aforetaste of the promised paradise. Satan has also his Eden of fieryroses, but they do not last long, and when they wither, put forth sharpthorns. The peasants felt them soon enough, for at Sindelfingen theyfound their master in Captain Georg Truchsess of Waldberg. 

Marx fell into his troopers' hands and was hung on the gallows, but onlyin mockery and as a warning to others; for before he and his companionsperished, the men took them down, cut their oath-fingers from theirhands, and drove them back into their old servitude. When he at lastreturned home, his house had been taken from his family, whom he foundin extreme poverty. The father of Adam, the smith, to whom he hadformerly sold charcoal, redeemed the house, gave him work, and once, when a band of horsemen came to the city searching for rebelliouspeasants, the old man did not forbid him to hide three whole days in hisbarn. 

Since that time everything had been quiet in Swabia, and neither inforest, stream nor meadow had any freedom existed. 

Marx had only himself to provide for; his wife was dead, and his sonswere raftsmen, who took pine logs to Mayence and Cologne, sometimes evenas far as Holland. He owed gratitude to no one but Adam, and showed inhis way that he was conscious of it, for he taught Ulrich all sorts ofthings which were of no advantage to a boy, except to give him pleasure, though even in so doing he did not forget his own profit. Ulrich was nowfifteen, and could manage a cross-bow and hit the mark like a skilfulhunter, and as the lad did not lack a love for the chase, Marx affordedhim the pleasure. All he had heard about the equal rights of men heengrafted into the boy's soul, and when to-day, for the hundredth time, Ulrich expressed a doubt whether it was not stealing to kill game thatbelonged to the count, the charcoal-burner straightened his mouth, andsaid:

"Forest, stream and meadow are free. Surely you know that. "

The boy gazed thoughtfully at the ground for a time, and then asked:

"The fields too?"

"The fields?" repeated Marx, in surprise. "The fields? The fields are adifferent matter. " He glanced as he spoke, at the field of oats he hadsown in the autumn, and which now bore blades a finger long. "The fieldsare man's work and belong to him who tills them, but the forest, streamand meadow were made by God. Do you understand? What God created forAdam and Eve is everybody's property. "

As the sun rose higher, and the cuckoo began to raise its voice, Ulrich's name was shouted loudly several times in rapid successionthrough the forest. The arrow he had been shaping flew into a corner, and with a hasty "When it grows dusk, Marxle!" Ulrich dashed into thewoods, and soon joined his playmate Ruth. 

The pair strolled slowly through the forest by the side of the stream, enjoying the glorious morning, and gathering flowers to carry a bouquetto the little girl's mother. Ruth culled the blossoms daintily with thetips of her fingers; Ulrich wanted to help, and tore the slender stalksin tufts from the roots by the handful. Meantime their tongues werenot idle. Ulrich boastfully told her that Pater Benedictus had seen hispicture of her father, recognized it instantly, and muttered somethingover it. His mother's blood was strong in him; his imaginary world was avery different one from that of the narrow-minded boys of the Richtberg. 

His father had told him much, and the doctor still more, about the wide, wide world-kings, artists and great heroes. From Hangemarx he learned, that he possessed the same rights and dignity as all other men, andRuth's wonderful power of imagination peopled his fancy with thestrangest shapes and figures. She made royal crowns of wreaths, transformed the little hut, the lad had built of boughs, behind thedoctor's house, into a glittering imperial palace, converted roundpebbles into ducats and golden zechins--bread and apples into princelybanquets; and when she had placed two stools before the wooden bench onwhich she sat with Ulrich her fancy instantly transformed them into asilver coronation coach with milk-white steeds. When she was a fairy, Ulrich was obliged to be a magician; if she was the queen, he was king. 

When, to give vent to his animal spirits, Ulrich played with theRichtberg boys, he always led them, but allowed himself to be guided bylittle Ruth. He knew that the doctor was a despised Jew, that she wasa Jewish child; but his father honored the Hebrew, and the foreignatmosphere, the aristocratic, secluded repose that pervaded the solitaryscholar's house, exerted a strange influence over him. 

When he entered it, a thrill ran through his frame; it seemed as if hewere penetrating into some forbidden sanctuary. He was the only one ofall his playfellows, who was permitted to cross this threshold, and hefelt it as a distinction, for, in spite of his youth, he realized thatthe quiet doctor, who knew everything that existed in heaven and onearth, and yet was as mild and gentle as a child, stood far, farabove the miserable drudges, who struggled with sinewy hands for mereexistence on the Richtberg. He expected everything from him, and Ruthalso seemed a very unusual creature, a delicate work of art, with whomhe, and he only, was allowed to play. 

It might have happened, that when irritated he would upbraid her withbeing a wretched Jewess, but it would scarcely have surprised him, ifshe had suddenly stood before his eyes as a princess or a phoenix. 

When the Richtberg lay close beneath them, Ruth sat down on a stone, placing her flowers in her lap. Ulrich threw his in too, and, as thebouquet grew, she held it towards him, and he thought it very pretty;but she said, sighing:

"I wish roses grew in the forest; not common hedge-roses, but like thosein Portugal--full, red, and with the real perfume. There is nothing thatsmells sweeter. "

So it always was with the pair. Ruth far outstripped Ulrich in herdesires and wants, thus luring him to follow her. 

"A rose!" repeated Ulrich. "How astonished you look!"

Her wish reminded him of the magic word she had mentioned the daybefore, and they talked about it all the way home, Ulrich saying thathe had waked three times in the night on account of it. Ruth eagerlyinterrupted him, exclaiming:

"I thought of it again too, and if any one would tell the what it was, I should know what to wish now. I would not have a single human being inthe world except you and me, and my father and mother. "

"And my little mother!" added Ulrich, earnestly. 

"And your father, too!"

"Why, of course, he, too!" said the boy, as if to make hasty atonementfor his neglect. 

CHAPTER V. 

The sun was shining brightly on the little windows of the Israelite'ssitting-room, which were half open to admit the Spring air, thoughlightly shaded with green curtains, for Costa liked a subdued light, andwas always careful to protect his apartment from the eyes of passers-by. 

There was nothing remarkable to be seen, for the walls were whitewashed, and their only ornament was a garland of lavender leaves, whose perfumeRuth's mother liked to inhale. The whole furniture consisted of a chest, several stools, a bench covered with cushions, a table, and two plainwooden arm-chairs. 

One of the latter had long been the scene of Adam's happiest hours, forhe used to sit in it when he played chess with Costa. 

He had sometimes looked on at the noble game while in Nuremberg; butthe doctor understood it thoroughly, and had initiated him into all itsrules. 

For the first two years Costa had remained far in advance of his pupil, then he was compelled to defend himself in good earnest, and now it notunfrequently happened that the smith vanquished the scholar. True, thelatter was much quicker than the former, who if the situation becamecritical, pondered over it an unconscionably long time. 

Two hands more unlike had rarely met over a chess-board; one suggesteda strong, dark plough-ox, the other a light, slender-limbed palfrey. TheIsraelite's figure looked small in contrast with the smith's giganticframe. How coarse-grained, how heavy with thought the German's big, fairhead appeared, how delicately moulded and intellectual the PortugueseJew's. 

To-day the two men had again sat down to the game, but instead ofplaying, had been talking very, very earnestly. In the course of theconversation the doctor had left his place and was pacing restlessly toand fro. Adam retained his seat. 

His friend's arguments had convinced him. Ulrich was to be sent tothe monastery-school. Costa had also been informed of the danger thatthreatened his own person, and was deeply agitated. The peril was great, very great, yet it was hard, cruelly hard, to quit this peaceful nook. The smith understood what was passing in his mind, and said:

"It is hard for you to go. What binds you here to the Richtberg?"

"Peace, peace!" cried the other. "And then, " he added more calmly, "Ihave gained land here. "

"You?"

"The large and small graves behind the executioner's house, they are myestates. "

"It is hard, hard to leave them, " said the smith, with drooping head. "All this comes upon you on account of the kindness you have shown myboy; you have had a poor reward from us. "

"Reward?" asked the other, a subtle smile hovering around his lips. "Iexpect none, neither from you nor fate. I belong to a poor sect, thatdoes not consider whether its deeds will be repaid or not. We lovegoodness, set a high value on it, and practise it, so far as our powerextends, because it is so beautiful. What have men called good? Onlythat which keeps the soul calm. And what is evil? That which fills itwith disquiet. I tell you, that the hearts of those who pursue virtue, though they are driven from their homes, hunted and tortured likenoxious beasts, are more tranquil than those of their powerfulpersecutors, who practise evil. He who seeks any other reward forvirtue, than virtue itself, will not lack disappointment. It is neitheryou nor Ulrich, who drives me hence, but the mysterious ancient curse, that pursues my people when they seek to rest; it is, it is. . . Anothertime, to-morrow. This is enough for to-day. "

When the doctor was alone, he pressed his hand to his brow and groanedaloud. His whole life passed before his mind, and he found in it, besides terrible suffering, great and noble joys, and not an hour inwhich his desire for virtue was weakened. He had spent happy years herein the peace of his simple home, and now must again set forth and wanderon and on, with nothing before his eyes save an uncertain goal, at theend of a long, toilsome road. What had hitherto been his happiness, increased his misery in this hour. It was hard, unspeakably hard, todrag his wife and child through want and sorrow, and could Elizabeth, his wife, bear it again?

He found her in the tiny garden behind the horse, kneeling beforea flower-bed to weed it. As he greeted her pleasantly, she rose andbeckoned to him. 

"Let us sit down, " he said, leading her to the bench before the hedge, that separated the garden from the forest. There he meant to tell her, that they must again shake the dust from their feet. 

She had lost the power of speech on the rack in Portugal, and could onlyfalter a few unintelligible words, when greatly excited, but her hearinghad remained, and her husband understood how to read the expression ofher eyes. A great sorrow had drawn a deep line in the high, pure brow, and this also was eloquent; for when she felt happy and at peace it wasscarcely perceptible, but if an anxious or sorrowful mood existed, the furrow contracted and deepened. To-day it seemed to have entirelydisappeared. Her fair hair was drawn plainly and smoothly, over hertemples, and the slender, slightly stooping figure, resembled a youngtree, which the storm has bowed and deprived of strength and will toraise itself. 

"Beautiful!" she exclaimed in a smothered tone, with much effort, buther bright glance clearly expressed the joy that filled her soul, asshe pointed to the green foliage around her and the blue sky over theirheads. 

"Delicious-delicious!" he answered, cordially. "The June day isreflected in your dear face. You have learned to be contented here?"

Elizabeth nodded eagerly, pressing both hands upon her heart, whileher eloquent glance told him how well, how grateful and happy, she felthere; and when in reply to his timid question, whether it would be hardfor her to leave this place and seek another, a safer home, she gazed atfirst in surprise, then anxiously into his face, and then, with an eagergesture of refusal, gasped "Not go--not go!" He answered, soothingly:

"No, no; we are still safe here to-day!"

Elizabeth knew her husband, and had keen eyes; a presentiment ofapproaching danger seized upon her. Her features assumed an expressionof terrified expectation and deep grief. The furrow in her browdeepened, and questioning glances and gestures united with the"What?--what?" trembling on her lips. 

"Do not fear!" he replied, tenderly. "We must not spoil the present, because the future might bring something that is not agreeable to us. "

As he uttered the words, she pressed closely to him, clutching hisarm with both hands, but he felt the rapid throbbing of her heart, andperceived by the violent agitation expressed in every feature, whatdeep, unconquerable horror was inspired by the thought of beingcompelled to go out into the world again, hunted from country tocountry, from town to town. All that she had suffered for his sake, came back to his memory, and he clasped her trembling hands in his withpassionate fervor. It seemed as if it would be very, very easy, to diewith her, but wholly impossible to thrust her forth again into a foreignland and to an uncertain fate; so, kissing her on her eyes, which weredilated with horrible fear, he exclaimed, as if no peril, but merely afoolish wish had suggested the desire to roam:

"Yes, child, it is best here. Let us be content with what we have. Wewill stay!--yes, we will stay!" Elizabeth drew a long breath, as ifrelieved from an incubus, her brow became smooth, and it seemed as ifthe dumb mouth joined the large upraised eyes in uttering an "Amen, "that came from the inmost depths of the heart. 

Costa's soul was saddened and sorely troubled, when he returned to thehouse and his writing-table. The old maid-servant, who had accompaniedhim from Portugal, entered at the same time, and watched hispreparations, shaking her head. She was a small, crippled Jewess, agrey-haired woman, with youthful, bright, dark eyes, and restless hands, that fluttered about her face with rapid, convulsive gestures, while shetalked. 

She had grown old in Portugal, and contracted rheumatism in the unusualcold of the North, so even in Spring she wrapped her head in all the gaykerchiefs she owned. She kept the house scrupulously neat, understoodhow to prepare tempting dishes from very simple materials, and boughteverything she needed for the kitchen. This was no trifling matterfor her, since, though she had lived more than nine years in the blackForest, she had learned few German words. Even these the neighborsmistook for Portuguese, though they thought the language bore somedistant resemblance to German. Her gestures they understood perfectly. 

She had voluntarily followed the doctor's father, yet she could notforgive the dead man, for having brought her out of the warm South intothis horrible country. Having been her present master's nurse, she tookmany liberties with him, insisting upon knowing everything that went onin the household, of which she felt herself the oldest, and thereforethe most distinguished member; and it was strange how quickly she couldhear when she chose, spite of her muffled ears!

To-day she had been listening again, and as her master was preparingto take his seat at the table and sharpen his goose-quill, she glancedaround to see that they were entirely alone; then approached, saying inPortuguese:

"Don't begin that, Lopez. You must listen to me first. "

"Must I?" he asked, kindly. 

"If you don't choose to do it, I can go!" she answered, angrily. "To besure, sitting still is more comfortable than running. "

"What do you mean by that?"

"Do you suppose yonder books are the walls of Zion? Do you feel inclinedto make the monks' acquaintance once more?"

"Fie, fie, Rahel, listening again? Go into the kitchen!"

"Directly! Directly! But I will speak first. You pretend, that you areonly staying here to please your wife, but it's no such thing. It'syonder writing that keeps you. I know life, but you and your wife arejust like two children. Evil is forgotten in the twinkling of an eye, and blessing is to come straight from Heaven, like quails and manna. What sort of a creature have your books made you, since you came withthe doctor's hat from Coimbra? Then everybody said: 'Lopez, Senor Lopez. Heavenly Father, what a shining light he'll be!' And now! The Lord havemercy on us! You work, work, and what does it bring you? Not an egg; nota rush! Go to your uncle in the Netherlands. He'll forget the curse, ifyou submit! How many of the zechins, your father saved, are still left?"

Here the doctor interrupted the old woman's torrent of speech witha stern "enough!" but she would not allow herself to be checked, andcontinued with increasing volubility. 

"Enough, you say? I fret over perversity enough in silence. May mytongue wither, if I remain mute to-day. Good God! child, are you out ofyour senses? Everything has been crammed into your poor head, but tobe sure it isn't written in the books, that when people find out whathappened in Porto, and that you married a baptized child, a Gentile, aChristian girl. . . . "

At these words the doctor rose, laid his hands on the servant'sshoulder, and said with grave, quiet earnestness. 

"Whoever speaks of that, may betray it; may betray it. Do you understandme, Rahel? I know your good intentions, and therefore tell you: mywife is content here, and danger is still far away. We shall stay. Andbesides: since Elizabeth became mine, the Jews avoid me as an accursed, the Christians as a condemned man. The former close the doors, the latter would fain open them; the gates of a prison, I mean. NoPortuguese will come here, but in the Netherlands there is more than onemonk and one Jew from Porto, and if any of them recognize me and findElizabeth with me, it will involve no less trifle than her life andmine. I shall stay here; you now know why, and can go to your kitchen. "

Old Rahel reluctantly obeyed, yet the doctor did not resume his seat atthe writing-table, but for a long time paced up and down among his booksmore rapidly than usual. 

CHAPTER VI. 

St. John's day was close at hand. Ulrich was to go to the monastery thefollowing morning. Hitherto Father Benedict had been satisfied, and noone molested the doctor. Yet the tranquillity, which formerly exertedso beneficial an effect, had departed, and the measures of precaution henow felt compelled to adopt, like everything else that brought him intoconnection with the world, interrupted the progress of his work. 

The smith was obliged to provide Ulrich with clothing, and for thispurpose went with the lad and a well-filled purse, not to his nativeplace, but to the nearest large city. 

There many a handsome suit of garments hung in the draper's windows, andthe barefooted boy blushed crimson with delight, when he stood beforethis splendid show. As he was left free to choose, he instantly selectedthe clothes a nobleman had ordered for his son, and which, from headto foot, were blue on one side and yellow on the other. But Adam pushedthem angrily aside. Ulrich's pleasure in the gay stuff reminded him ofhis wife's outfit, the pink and green gowns. 

So he bought two dark suits, which fitted the lad's erect figure asif moulded upon him, and when the latter stood before him in the inn, neatly dressed, with shoes on his feet, and a student's cap on his head, Adam could not help gazing at him almost idolatrously. 

The tavern-keeper whispered to the smith, that it was long since he hadseen so handsome a young fellow, and the hostess, after bringing thebeer, stroked the boy's curls with her wet hand. 

On reaching home, Adam permitted his son to go to the doctor's in hisnew clothes; Ruth screamed with joy when she saw him, walked round andround him, and curiously felt the woollen stuff of the doublet and itsblue slashes, ever and anon clapping her hands in delight. 

Her parents had expected that the parting would excite her mostpainfully, but she smiled joyously into her playmate's face, when hebade her farewell, for she took the matter in her usual way, not as itreally was, but as she imagined it to be. Instead of the awkward Ulrichof the present, the fairy-prince he was now to become stood before her;he was to return without fail at Christmas, and then how delightful itwould be to play with him again. Of late they had been together evenmore than usual, continually seeking for the word, and planning athousand delightful things he was to conjure up for her, and she for himand others. 

It was the Sabbath, and on this day old Rahel always dressed the childin a little yellow silk frock, while on Sunday her mother did the same. The gown particularly pleased Ulrich's eye, and when she wore it, healways became more yielding and obeyed her every wish. So Ruth rejoicedthat it chanced to be the Sabbath, and while she passed her hand overhis doublet, he stroked her silk dress. 

They had not much to say to each other, for their tongues alwaysfaltered in the presence of others. The doctor gave Ulrich many anadmonitory word, his wife kissed him, and as a parting remembrance hunga small gold ring, with a glittering stone, about his neck, and oldRahel gave him a kerchief full of freshly-baked cakes to eat on his way. 

At noon on St. John's day, Ulrich and his father stood before the gateof the monastery. Servants and mettled steeds were waiting there, andthe porter, pointing to them, said: "Count Frohlinger is within. "

Adam turned pale, pressed his son so convulsively to his breast that hegroaned with pain, sent a laybrother to call Father Benedict, confidedhis child to him, and walked towards home with drooping head. 

Hitherto Ulrich had not known whether to enjoy or dread the thoughtof going to the monastery-school. The preparations had been pleasantenough, and the prospect of sharing the same bench with the sons ofnoblemen and aristocratic citizens, flattered his unity; but when hesaw his father depart, his heart melted and his eyes grew wet. The monk;noticing this, drew him towards him, patted his shoulder, and said:"Keep up your courage! You will see that it is far pleasanter with us, than down in the Richtberg. "

This gave Ulrich food for thought, and he did not glance around as theFather led him up the steep stairs to the landing-place, and past therefectory into the court-yard. 

Monks were pacing silently up and down the corridors that surrounded it, and one after another raised his shaven head higher over his white cowl, to cast a look at the new pupil. 

Behind the court-yard stood the stately, gable-roofed buildingcontaining the guest-rooms, and between it and the church lay theschool-garden, a meadow planted with fruit trees, separated from thehighway by a wall. 

Benedictus opened the wooden gate, and pushed Ulrich into theplayground. 

The noise there had been loud enough, but at his entrance the gamestopped, and his future companions nudged each other, scanning him withscrutinizing glances. 

The monk beckoned to several of the pupils, and made them acquaintedwith the smith's son, then stroking Ulrich's curls again, left him alonewith the others. 

On St. John's day the boys were given their liberty and allowed to playto their hearts' content. 

They took no special notice of Ulrich, and after having staredsufficiently and exchanged a few words with him, continued theirinterrupted game of trying to throw stones over the church roof. 

Meantime Ulrich looked at his comrades. 

There were large and small, fair and dark lads among them, but not onewith whom he could not have coped. To this point his scrutiny was firstdirected. 

At last he turned his attention to the game. Many of the stones, thathad been thrown, struck the slates on the roof; not one had passed overthe church. The longer the unsuccessful efforts lasted, the moreevident became the superior smile on Ulrich's lips, the faster his heartthrobbed. His eyes searched the grass, and when he had discovered aflat, sharp-edged stone, he hurriedly stooped, pressed silently into theranks of the players, and bending the upper part of his body far back, summoned all his strength, and hurled the stone in a beautiful curvehigh into the air. 

Forty sparkling eyes followed it, and a loud shout of joy rang out as itvanished behind the church roof. One alone, a tall, thin, black-hairedlad, remained silent, and while the others were begging Ulrich to throwagain, searched for a stone, exerted all his power to equal the 11"greenhorn, " and almost succeeded. Ulrich now sent a second stoneafter the first, and, again the cast was successful. Dark-browed Xaverinstantly seized a new missile, and the contest that now followed soengrossed the attention of all, that they saw and heard nothing until adeep voice, in a firm, though not unkind tone, called: "Stop, boys! Nogames must be played with the church. "

At these words the younger boys hastily dropped the stones they hadgathered, for the man who had shouted, was no less a personage than theLord Abbot himself. 

Soon the lads approached to kiss the ecclesiastic's hand or sleeve, andthe stately priest, who understood how to guide those subject to himby a glance of his dark eyes, graciously and kindly accepted thesalutation. 

"Grave in office, and gay in sport" was his device. Count vonFrohlinger, who had entered the garden with him, looked like one whosemotto runs: "Never grave and always gay. "

The nobleman had not grown younger since Ulrich's mother fled into theworld, but his eyes still sparkled joyously and the brick-red hue thattinged his handsome face between his thick white moustache and his eyes, announced that he was no less friendly to wine than to fair women. Howwell his satin clothes and velvet cloak became him, how beautifullythe white puffs were relieved against the deep blue of his dress!How proudly the white and yellow plumes arched over his cap, and howdelicate were the laces on his collar and cuffs! His son, the very imageof the handsome father, stood beside him, and the count had laid hishand familiarly on his shoulder, as if he were not his child, but afriend and comrade. 

"A devil of a fellow!" whispered the count to the abbot. "Did you seethe fair-haired lad's throw? From what house does the young noble come?"

The prelate shrugged his shoulders, and answered smiling:

"From the smithy at Richtberg. "

"Does he belong to Adam?" laughed the other. "Zounds! I had a bitterhour in the confessional on his mother's account. He has inherited thebeautiful Florette's hair and eyes; otherwise he looks like his father. With your permission, my Lord Abbot, I'll call the boy. "

"Afterwards, afterwards, " replied the superior of the monastery in atone of friendly denial, which permitted no contradiction. "First tellthe boys, what we have decided?"

Count Frohlinger bowed respectfully, then drew his son closer to hisside, and waited for the boys, to whom the abbot beckoned. 

As soon as they had gathered in a group before him, the noblemanexclaimed:

"You have just bid this good-for-nothing farewell. What should you say, if I left him among you till Christmas? The Lord Abbot will keep him, and you, you. . . . "

But he had no time to finish the sentence. The pupils rushed upon him, shouting:

"Stay here, Philipp! Count Lips must stay!"

One little flaxen-headed fellow nestled closely to his regainedprotector, another kissed the count's hand, and two larger boys seizedPhilipp by the arm and tried to drag him away from his father, back intotheir circle. 

The abbot looked on at the tumult kindly, and bright tear-drops ran downinto the old count's beard, for his heart was easily touched. When herecovered his composure, he exclaimed:

"Lips shall stay, you rogues; he shall stay! And the Lord Abbot hasgiven you permission, to come with me to-day to my hunting-box and lighta St. John's fire. There shall be no lack of cakes and wine. "

"Hurrah! hurrah! Long live the count!" shouted the pupils, and allwho had caps tossed them into the air. Ulrich was carried away by theenthusiasm of the others; and all the evil words his father had solavishly heaped on the handsome, merry gentleman--all Hangemarx's abuseof knights and nobles were forgotten. 

The abbot and his companion withdrew, but as soon as the boys knew thatthey were unobserved, Count Lips cried:

"You fellow yonder, you greenhorn, threw the stone over the roof. I sawit. Come here. Over the roof? That should be my right. Whoever breaksthe first window in the steeple, shall be victor. "

The smith's son felt embarrassed, for he shrank from the mischief andfeared his father and the abbot. But when the young count held out hisclosed hands, saying: "If you choose the red stone, you shall throwfirst, " he pointed to his companion's right hand, and, as it concealedthe red pebble, began the contest. He threw the stone, and struck thewindow. Amid loud shouts of exultation from the boys, more than oneround pane of glass, loosened from the leaden casing, rattled in brokenfragments on the church roof, and from thence fell silently on thegrass. Count Lips laughed aloud in his delight, and was preparing tofollow Ulrich's example, but the wooden gate was pushed violently open, and Brother Hieronymus, the most severe of all the monks, appeared inthe playground. The zealous priest's cheeks glowed with anger, terriblewere the threats he uttered, and declaring that the festival of St. John should not be celebrated, unless the shameless wretch, who hadblasphemously shattered the steeple window, confessed his fault, hescanned the pupils with rolling eyes. 

Young Count Lips stepped boldly forward, saying beseechingly:

"I did it, Father--unintentionally! Forgive me!"

"You?" asked the monk, his voice growing lower and more gentle, ashe continued: "Folly and wantonness without end! When will you learndiscretion, Count Philipp? But as you did it unintentionally, I will letit pass for to-day. "

With these words, the monk left the court-yard; and as soon as the gatehad closed behind him, Ulrich approached his generous companion, andsaid in a tone that only he could hear, yet grateful to the inmostdepths of his heart:

"I will repay you some day. "

"Nonsense!" laughed the young count, throwing his arm over the shoulderof the artisan's son. "If the glass wouldn't rattle, I would throw now;but there's another day coming to-morrow. "

CHAPTER VII. 

Autumn had come. The yellow leaves were fluttering about the schoolplay-ground, the starlings were gathering in flocks on the church roofto take their departure, and Ulrich would fain have gone with them, nomatter where. He could not feel at home in the monastery and amonghis companions. Always first in Richtberg, he was rarely so here, mostseldom of all in school, for his father had forbidden the doctor toteach him Latin, so in that study he was last of all. 

Often, when every one was asleep, the poor lad sat studying by theever-burning lamp in the lobby, but in vain. He could not come up withthe others, and the unpleasant feeling of remaining behind, in spite ofthe most honest effort, spoiled his life and made him irritable. 

His comrades did not spare him, and when they called him "horse-boy, "because he was often obliged to help Pater Benedictus in bringingrefractory horses to reason, he flew into a rage and used his superiorstrength. 

He stood on the worst terms of all with black-haired Xaver, to whom heowed the nickname. 

This boy's father was the chief magistrate of the little city, and wasallowed to take his son home with him at Michaelmas. 

When the black-haired lad returned, he had many things to tell, gatheredfrom half-understood rumor, about Ulrich's parents. Words were nowuttered, that brought the blood to Ulrich's cheeks, yet he intentionallypretended not to hear them, because he dared not contradict tales thatmight be true. He well knew who had brought all these stories to theothers, and answered Xaver's malicious spite with open enmity. 

Count Lips did not trouble himself about any of these things, butremained Ulrich's most intimate friend, and was fond of going with himto see the horses. His vivacious intellect joyously sympathized with thesmith's son, when he told him about Ruth's imaginary visions, and oftenin the play-ground he went apart with Ulrich from their companions; butthis very circumstance was a thing that many, who had formerly beenon more intimate terms with the aristocratic boy, were not disposed toforgive the new-comer. 

Xaver had never been friendly to the count's son, and succeeded inirritating many against their former favorite, because he fanciedhimself better than they, and still more against Ulrich, who was half aservant, yet presumed to play the master and offer them violence. 

The monks employed in the school soon noticed the ill terms, on whichthe new pupil stood with his companions, and did not lack reasons forshaking their heads over him. 

Benedictus had not been able to conceal, who had been Ulrich's teacherin Richtberg; and the seeds the Jew had planted in the boy, seemed to bebearing strange and vexatious fruit. 

Father Hieronymus, who instructed the pupils in religion, fairlyraged, when he spoke of the destructive doctrines, that haunted the newscholar's head. 

When, soon after Ulrich's reception into the school, he had spoken ofChrist's work of redemption, and asked the boy: "From what is the worldto be delivered by the Saviour's suffering?" the answer was: "From thearrogance of the rich and great. " Hieronymus had spoken of the holysacraments, and put the question: "By what means can the Christiansurely obtain mercy, unless he bolts the door against it--that is, commits a mortal sin?" and Ulrich's answer was: "By doing unto others, what you would have others do unto you. "

Such strange words might be heard by dozens from the boy's lips. Somewere repeated from Hangemarx's sayings, others from the doctor's; andwhen asked where he obtained them, he quoted only the latter, for themonks were not to be allowed to know anything about his intercourse withthe poacher. 

Sharp reproofs and severe penances were now bestowed, for many a wordthat he had thought beautiful and pleasing in the sight of God; and thepoor, tortured young soul often knew no help in its need. 

He could not turn to the dear God and the Saviour, whom he was said tohave blasphemed, for he feared them; but when he could no longer bearhis grief, discouragement, and yearning, he prayed to the Madonna forhelp. 

The image of the unhappy woman, about whom he had heard nothing but illwords, who had deserted him, and whose faithlessness gave the other boysa right to jeer at him, floated before his eyes, with that of the pure, holy Virgin in the church, brought by Father Lukas from Italy. 

In spite of all the complaints about him, which were carried to theabbot, the latter thought him a misguided, but good and promising boy, an opinion strengthened by the music-teacher and the artist Lukas, whosebest pupil Ulrich was; but they also were enraged against the Jew, whohad lured this nobly-gifted child along the road of destruction; andoften urged the abbot, who was anything but a zealot, to subject him toan examination by torture. 

In November, the chief magistrate was summoned, and informed of theheresies with which the Hebrew had imperiled the soul of a Christianchild. 

The wise abbot wished to avoid anything, that would cause excitement, during this time of rebellion against the power of the Church, but themagistrate claimed the right to commence proceedings against thedoctor. Of course, he said, sufficient proof must be brought againstthe accused. Father Hieronymus might note down the blasphemous tenets heheard from the boy's lips before witnesses, and at the Advent season thesmith and his son would be examined. 

The abbot, who liked to linger over his books, was glad to know thatthe matter was in the hands of the civil authorities, and enjoinedHieronymus to pay strict attention. 

On the third Sunday in Advent, the magistrate again came to themonastery. His horses had worked their way with the sleigh through thedeep snow in the ravine with much difficulty, and, half-frozen, he wentdirectly to the refectory and there asked for his son. 

The latter was lying with a bandaged eye in the cold dormitory, and whenhis father sought him, he heard that Ulrich had wounded him. 

It would not have needed Xaver's bitter complaints, to rouse his fatherto furious rage against the boy who had committed this violence, andhe was by no means satisfied, when he learned that the culprit had beenexcluded for three weeks from the others' sports, and placed on a veryfrugal diet. He went furiously to the abbot. 

The day before (Saturday), Ulrich had gone at noon, without the youngcount, who was in confinement for some offence, to the snow-coveredplay-ground, where he was attacked by Xaver and a dozen of his comrades, pushed into a snow-bank, and almost suffocated. The conspirators hadstuffed icicles and snow under his clothes next his skin, taken offhis shoes and filled them with snow, and meantime Xaver jumped upon hisback, pressing his face into the snow till Ulrich lost his breath, andbelieved his last hour had come. 

Exerting the last remnant of his strength, he had succeeded in throwingoff and seizing his tormentor. While the others fled, he wreaked hisrage on the magistrate's son to his heart's content, first with hisfists, and then with the heavy shoe that lay beside him. Meantime, snowballs had rained upon his body and head from all directions, increasing his fury; and as soon as Xaver no longer struggled he startedup, exclaiming with glowing cheeks and upraised fists:

"Wait, wait, you wicked fellows! The doctor in Richtberg knows a word, by which he shall turn you all into toads and rats, you miserablerascals!"

Xaver had remembered this speech, which he repeated to his father, cleverly enlarged with many a false word. The abbot listened to themagistrate's complaint very quietly. 

The angry father was no sufficient witness for him, yet the matterseemed important enough to send for and question Ulrich, though themeal-time had already begun. The Jew had really spoken to his daughterabout the magic word, and the pupil of the monastery had threatened hiscompanions with it. So the investigation might begin. 

Ulrich was led back to the prison-chamber, where some thin soup andbread awaited him, but he touched neither. Food and drink disgusted him, and he could neither work nor sit still. 

The little bell, which, summoned all the occupants of the monastery, washeard at an unusual hour, and about vespers the sound of sleigh-bellsattracted him to the window. The abbot and Father Hieronymus weretalking in undertones to the magistrate, who was just preparing to enterhis sleigh. 

They were speaking of him and the doctor, and the pupils had just beensummoned to bear witness against him. No one had told him so, but heknew it, and was seized with such anxiety about the doctor, that dropsof perspiration stood on his brow. 

He was clearly aware that he had mingled his teacher's words with thepoacher's blasphemous sayings, and also that he had put the latter intothe mouth of Ruth's father. 

He was a traitor, a liar, a miserable scoundrel!

He wished to go to the abbot and confess all, yet dared not, and so thehours stole away until the time for the evening mass. 

While in church he strove to pray, not only for himself but for thedoctor, but in vain, he could think of nothing but the trial, and whilekneeling with his hands over his eyes, saw the Jew in fetters beforehim, and he himself at the trial in the town-hall. 

At last the mass ended. 

Ulrich rose. Just before him hung the large crucifix, and the Saviour onthe cross, who with his head bowed on one side, usually gazed so gentlyand mournfully upon the ground, to-day seemed to look at him withmingled reproach and accusation. 

In the dormitory, his companions avoided him as if he had the plague, but he scarcely noticed it. 

The moonlight and the reflection from the snow shone brightly throughthe little window, but Ulrich longed for darkness, and buried his facein the pillows. The clock in the steeple struck ten. 

He raised himself and listened to the deep breathing of the sleepers onhis right and left, and the gnawing of a mouse under the bed. 

His heart throbbed faster and more anxiously, but suddenly seemed tostand still, for a low voice had called his name. 

"Ulrich!" it whispered again, and the young count, who lay beside him, rose in bed and bent towards him. Ulrich had told him about the word, and often indulged in wishes with him, as he had formerly done withRuth. Philipp now whispered:

"They are going to attack the doctor. The abbot and magistratequestioned us, as if it were a matter of life and death. I kept whatI know about the word to myself, for I'm sorry for the Jew, but Xaver, spiteful fellow, made it appear as if you really possessed the spell, and just now he came to me and said his father would seize the Jew earlyto-morrow morning, and then he would be tortured. Whether they will hangor burn him is the question. His life is forfeited, his father said--andthe black-visaged rascal rejoiced over it. "

"Sileutium, turbatores!" cried the sleepy voice of the monk in charge, and the boys hastily drew back into the feathers and were silent. 

The young count soon fell asleep again, but Ulrich buried his head stilldeeper among the pillows; it seemed as if he saw the mild, thoughtfulface of the man, from whom he had received so much affection, gazingreproachfully at him; then the dumb wife appeared before his mind, andhe fancied her soft hand was lovingly stroking his cheeks as usual. Ruth also appeared, not in the yellow silk dress, but clad in rags of abeggar, and she wept, hiding her face in her mother's lap. 

He groaned aloud. The clock struck eleven. He rose and listened. Nothingstirred, and slipping on his clothes, he took his shoes in his handand tried to open the window at the head of his bed. It had stood openduring the day, but the frost fastened it firmly to the frame. Ulrichbraced his foot against the wall and pulled with all his strength, butit resisted one jerk after another; at last it suddenly yielded and flewopen, making a slight creaking and rattling, but the monk on guard didnot wake, only murmured softly in his sleep. 

The boy stood motionless for a time, holding his breath, then swunghimself upon the parapet and looked out. The dormitory was in the secondstory of the monastery, above the rampart, but a huge bank of snow rosebeside the wall, and this strengthened his courage. 

With hurrying fingers he made the sign of the cross, a low: "Mary, prayfor me, " rose from his lips, then he shut his eyes and risked the leap. 

There was a buzzing, roaring sound in his ears, his mother's imageblended in strange distortion with the Jew's, then an icy sea swallowedhim, and it seemed as if body and soul were frozen. But this sensationoverpowered him only a few minutes, then working his way out of the massof snow, he drew on his shoes, and dashed as if pursued by a pack ofwolves, down the mountain, through the ravine, across the heights, andfinally along the river to the city and the Richtberg. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The magistrate's horses did not reach the city gate, from the monastery, more quickly than Ulrich. 

As soon as the smith was roused from sleep by the boy's knock andrecognized his voice, he knew what was coming, and silently listened tothe lad's confessions, while he himself hurriedly yet carefully took outhis hidden hoard, filled a bag with the most necessary articles, thrusthis lightest hammer into his belt, and poured water on the glimmeringcoals. Then, locking the door, he sent Ulrich to Hangemarx, with whomhe had already settled many things; for Caspar, the juggler, who learnedmore through his daughters than any other man, had come to him the daybefore, to tell him that something was being plotted against the Jew. 

Adam found the latter still awake and at work. He was prepared for thedanger that threatened him, and ready to fly. No word of complaint, noteven a hasty gesture betrayed the mental anguish of the persecuted man, and the smith's heart melted, as he heard the doctor rouse his wife andchild from their sleep. 

The terrified moans of the startled wife, and Ruth's loud weeping andcurious questions, were soon drowned by the lamentations of oldRahel, who wrapped in even more kerchiefs than usual, rushed into thesitting-room, and while lamenting and scolding in a foreign tongue, gathered together everything that lay at hand. She had dragged a largechest after her, and now threw in candlesticks, jugs, and even thechessmen and Ruth's old doll with a broken head. 

When the third hour after midnight came, the doctor was ready fordeparture. 

Marx's charcoal sledge, with its little horse, stopped before the door. 

This was a strange animal, no larger than a calf, as thin as a goat, andin some places woolly, in others as bare as a scraped poodle. 

The smith helped the dumb woman into the sleigh, the doctor put Ruthin her lap, Ulrich consoled the child, who asked him all sorts ofquestions, but the old woman would not part from the chest, and couldscarcely be induced to enter the vehicle. 

"You know, across the mountains into the Rhine valley--no matter where, "Costa whispered to the poacher. 

Hangemarx urged on his little horse, and answered, not turning to theIsraelite, who had addressed him, but to Adam, who he thought wouldunderstand him better than the bookworm: "It won't do to go up theravine, without making any circuit. The count's hounds will track us, ifthey follow. We'll go first up the high road by the Lautenhof. To-morrowwill be a fair-day. People will come early from the villages and treaddown the snow, so the dogs will lose the scent. If it would only snow. "

Before the smithy, the doctor held out his hand to Adam, saying: "Wepart here, friend. "

"We'll go with you, if agreeable to you. "

"Consider, " the other began warningly, but Adam interrupted him, saying:

"I have considered everything; lost is lost. Ulrich, take the doctor'ssack from his shoulder. "

For a long time nothing more was said. 

The night was clear and cold; the men's footsteps fell noiselessly onthe soft snow, nothing was heard except the creaking of the sledge, and ever and anon Elizabeth's low moaning, or a louder word in the oldwoman's soliloquy. Ruth had fallen asleep on her mother's lap, and wasbreathing heavily. 

At Lautenhof a narrow path led through the mountains deep into theforest. 

As it grew steeper, the snow became knee-deep, and the men helped thelittle horse, which often coughed, tossing its thick head up and down, as if working a churn. Once, when the poor creature met with a veryheavy fall, Marx pointed to the green woollen scarf on the animal'sneck, and whispered to the smith "Twenty years old, and has the glandersbesides. "

The little beast nodded slowly and mournfully, as if to say: "Life ishard; this will probably be the last time I draw a sleigh. "

The broad, heavy-laden pine-boughs drooped wearily by the roadside, thegleaming surface of the snow stretched in a monotonous sheet of whitebetween the trunks of the trees, the tops of the dark rocks beside theway bore smooth white caps of loose snow, the forest stream was frozenalong the edges, only in the centre did the water trickle throughsnow-crystals and sharp icicles to the valley. 

So long as the moon shone, flickering rays danced and sparkled on theice and snow, but afterwards only the tedious glimmer of the universalsnow-pall lighted the traveller's way. 

"If it would only snow!" repeated the charcoal-burner. 

The higher they went, the deeper grew the snow, the more wearisome thewading and climbing. 

Often, on the doctor's account, the smith called in a low voice, "Halt!"and then Costa approached the sleigh and asked: "How do you feel?" orsaid: "We are getting on bravely. "

Rahel screamed whenever a fox barked in the distance, a wolf howled, oran owl flew through the treetops, brushing the snow from the brancheswith its wings; but the others also started. Marx alone walked quietlyand undisturbed beside his little horse's thick head; he was familiarwith all the voices of the forest. 

It grew colder towards morning. Ruth woke and cried, and her father, panting for breath, asked: "When shall we rest?"

"Behind the height; ten arrow-shots farther, " replied thecharcoal-burner. 

"Courage, " whispered the smith. "Get on the sledge, doctor; we'll push. "

But Costa shook his head, pointed to the panting horse, and draggedhimself onward. 

The poacher must have sent his arrows in a strange curve, for onequarter of an hour after another slipped by, and the top was not yetgained. Meantime it grew lighter and lighter, and the charcoal-burner, with increasing anxiety, ever and anon raised his head, and glancedaside. The sky was covered with clouds-the light overhead grey, dim, and blended with mist. The snow was still dazzling, though it no longersparkled and glittered, but covered every object with the dull whitenessof chalk. 

Ulrich kept beside the sledge to push it. When Ruth heard him groan, she stroked the hand that grasped the edges, this pleased him; and hesmiled. 

When they again stopped, this time on the crest of the ridge, Ulrichnoticed that the charcoal-burner was sniffing the air like a hound, andasked:

"What is it, Marxle?"

The poacher grinned, as he answered: "It's going to snow; I smell it. "

The road now led down towards the valley, and, after a short walk, thecharcoal-burner said:

"We shall find shelter below with Jorg, and a warm fire too, you poorwomen. "

These were cheering words, and came just at the right time, for largesnow-flakes began to fill the air, and a light breeze drove them intothe travellers' faces. "There!" cried Ulrich, pointing to the snowcovered roof of a wooden hut, that stood close before them in a clearingon the edge of the forest. 

Every face brightened, but Marx shook his head doubtfully, muttering:

"No smoke, no barking; the place is empty. Jorg has gone. AtWhitsuntide--how many years ago is it?--the boys left to act asraftsmen, but then he stayed here. "

Reckoning time was not the charcoal-burner's strong point; and the emptyhut, the dreary open window-casements in the mouldering wooden walls, the holes in the roof, through which a quantity of snow had drifted intothe only room in the deserted house, indicated that no human being hadsought shelter here for many a winter. 

Old Rahel uttered a fresh wail of grief, when she saw this shelter; butafter the men had removed the snow as well as they could, and coveredthe holes in the roof with pine-branches; when Adam had lighted a fire, and the sacks and coverlets were brought in from the sledge, and laid ona dry spot to furnish seats for the women, fresh courage entered theirhearts, and Rahel, unasked, dragged herself to the hearth, and set thesnow-filled pot on the fire. 

"The nag must have two hours' rest, " Marx said, "then they could push onand reach the miller in the ravine before night. There they would findkind friends, for Jacklein had been with him among the 'peasants. '"The snow-water boiled, the doctor and his wife rested, Ulrich andRuth brought wood, which the smith had split, to the fire to dry, whensuddenly a terrible cry of grief rang outside of the hut. 

Costa hastily rose, the children followed, and old Rahel, whimpering, drew the upper kerchief on her head over her face. 

The little horse, its tiny legs stretched far apart, was lying in thesnow by the sledge. Beside it knelt Marx, holding the clumsy head on hisknee, and blowing with his crooked mouth into the animal's nostrils. Thecreature showed its yellow teeth, and put out its bluish tongue as ifit wanted to lick him; then the heavy head fell, the dying animal's eyesstarted from their sockets, its legs grew perfectly stiff, and this timethe horse was really dead, while the shafts of the sledge vainly thrustthemselves into the air, like the gaping mouth of a deserted bird. 

No farther progress was possible. The women sat trembling in the hut, roasting before the fire, and shivering when a draught touched them. . . . Ruth wept for the poor little horse, and Marx sat as if utterly crushedbeside his old friend's stiffening body, heeding nothing, least of allthe snow, which was making him whiter than the miller, with whom he hadexpected to rest that evening. The doctor gazed in mute despair at hisdumb wife, who, with clasped hands, was praying fervently; the smithpressed his hand upon his brow, vainly pondering over what was to bedone now, until his head ached; while, from the distance, echoed thehowl of a hungry wolf, and a pair of ravens alighted on a white boughbeside the little horse, gazing greedily at the corpse lying in thesnow. 

Meantime, the abbot was sitting in his pleasantly-warmed study, whichwas pervaded by a faint, agreeable perfume, gazing now at thelogs burning in the beautiful marble mantel-piece, and then at themagistrate, who had brought him strange tidings. 

The prelate's white woollen morning-robe clung closely around hisstately figure. Beside him lay, side by side, for comparison, twomanuscript copies of his favorite book, the idyls of Theocritus, which, for his amusement, and to excel the translation of Coban Hesse, he wasturning into Latin verse, as the duties of his office gave him leisure. 

The magistrate was standing by the fire-side. He was a thick-set manof middle height, with a large head, and clever but coarse features, asrudely moulded as if they had been carved from wood. He was one of thebest informed lawyers in the country, and his words flowed as smoothlyand clearly from his strong lips, as if every thought in his keen brainwas born fully matured and beautifully finished. 

In the farthest corner of the room, awaiting a sign from his master, stood the magistrate's clerk, a little man with a round head, and legslike the sickle of the waxing or waning moon. He carried under his shortarms two portfolios, filled with important papers. 

"He comes from Portugal, and has lived under an assumed name?" So theabbot repeated, what he had just heard. 

"His name is Lopez, not Costa, " replied the other; "these papers proveit. Give me the portfolio, man! The diploma is in the brown one. "

He handed a parchment to the prelate, who, after reading it, saidfirmly:

"This Jew is a more important person than we supposed. They are notlavish with such praise in Coimbra. Are you taking good care of thedoctor's books Herr Conrad? I will look at them to-morrow. "

"They are at your disposal. These papers. . . . "

"Leave them, leave them. "

"There will be more than enough for the complaint without them, " saidthe magistrate. "Our town-clerk, who though no student is, as youknow, a man of much experience, shares my opinion. " Then he continuedpathetically: "Only he who has cause to fear the law hides his name, only he, who feels guilty, flees the judge. "

A subtle smile, that was not wholly free from bitterness, hoveredaround the abbot's lips, for he thought of the painful trial and thetorture-chamber in the town hall, and no longer saw in the doctor merelythe Jew, but the humanist and companion in study. 

His glance again fell on the diploma, and while the other continued hisrepresentations, the prelate stretched himself more comfortably in hisarm-chair and gazed thoughtfully at the ground. Then, as if an idea hadsuddenly occurred to him, he touched his high forehead with the tips ofhis fingers, and suddenly interrupting the eager speaker, said:

"Father Anselm came to us from Porto five years ago, and when there knewevery one who understood Greek. Go, Gutbub, and tell the librarian tocome. " The monk soon appeared. 

Tidings of Ulrich's disappearance and the Jew's flight had spreadrapidly through the monastery; the news was discussed in the choir, the school, the stable and the kitchen; Father Anselm alone had heardnothing of the matter, though he had been busy in the library beforedaybreak, and the vexatious incident had been eagerly talked of there. 

It was evident, that the elderly man cared little for anything thathappened in the world, outside of his manuscripts and printing. Hislong, narrow head rested on a thin neck, which did not stand erect, butgrew out between the shoulders like a branch from the stem. His face wasgrey and lined with wrinkles, like pumice-stone, but large bright eyeslent meaning and attraction to the withered countenance. 

At first he listened indifferently to the abbot's story, but as soon asthe Jew's name was mentioned, and he had read the diploma, as swiftly asif he possessed the gift of gathering the whole contents of ten lines ata single comprehensive glance, he said eagerly:

"Lopez, Doctor Lopez was here! And we did not know it, and have notconsulted with him! Where is he? What are people planning against him?"

After he had learned that the Jew had fled, and the abbot requestedhim to tell all he knew about the doctor, he collected his thoughts andsorrowfully began:

"To be sure, to be sure; the man committed a great offence. He is agreat sinner in God's eyes. You know his guilt?"

"We know everything, " cried the magistrate, with a meaning glance at theprelate. Then, as if he sincerely pitied the criminal, he continued withwell-feigned sympathy: "How did the learned man commit such a misdeed?"

The abbot understood the stratagem, but Anselm's words could not berecalled, and as he himself desired to learn more of the doctor'shistory, he asked the monk to tell what he knew. 

The librarian, in his curt, dry manner, yet with a warmth unusual tohim, described the doctor's great learning and brilliant intellect, saying that his father, though a Jew, had been in his way anaristocratic man, allied with many a noble family, for until the reignof King Emanuel, who persecuted the Hebrews, they had enjoyed greatdistinction in Portugal. In those days it had been hard to distinguishJews from Christians. At the time of the expulsion a few favoredIsraelites had been allowed to stay, among them the worthy Rodrigo, thedoctor's father, who had been the king's physician and was held in highesteem by the sovereign. Lopez obtained the highest honors at Coimbra, but instead of following medicine, like his father, devoted himself tothe humanities. 

"There was no need to earn his living--to earn his living, " continuedthe monk, speaking slowly and carefully, and repeating the conclusionof his sentence, as if he were in the act of collating two manuscripts, "for Rodrigo was one of the wealthiest men in Portugal. His son Lopezwas rich, very rich in friends, and among them were numbered all to whomknowledge was dear. Even among the Christians he had many friends. Amongus--I mean in our library--he also obtained great respect. I owehim many a hint, much aid; I mean in referring me to rare books, andexplaining obscure passages. When he no longer visited us, I missed himsorely. I am not curious; or do you think I am? I am not curious, butI could not help inquiring about him, and then I heard very bad things. Women are to blame for everything; of course it was a woman again. Amerchant from Flanders--a Christian--had settled in Porto. The doctor'sfather visited his house; but you probably know all this?"

"Of course! of course!" cried the magistrate. "But go on with yourstory. "

"Old Doctor Rodrigo was the Netherlander's physician, and closed hiseyes on the death-bed. An orphan was left, a girl, who had not a singlerelative in Porto. They said--I mean the young doctors and students whohad seen her--that she was pleasing, very pleasing to the eye. But itwas not on that account, but because she was orphaned and desolate, thatthe physician took the child--I mean the girl. "

"And reared her as a Jewess?" interrupted the magistrate, with aquestioning glance. 

"As a Jewess?" replied the monk, excitedly. "Who says so? He didnothing of the sort. A Christian widow educated her in the physician'scountry-house, not in the city. When the young doctor returned fromCoimbra, he saw her there more than once--more than once; certainly, more often than was good for him. The devil had a finger in the matter. I know, too, how they were married. Before one Jew and two Christianwitnesses, they plighted their troth to each other, and exchangedrings--rings as if it were a Christian ceremony, though he remained aJew and she a Christian. He intended to go to the Netherlands withher, but one of the witnesses betrayed them--denounced them to the HolyInquisition. This soon interposed of course, for there it interfereswith everything, and in this case it was necessary; nay more--aChristian duty. The young wife was seized in the street with herattendant and thrown into prison; on the rack she entirely lost thepower of speech. The old physician and the doctor were warned in time, and kept closely concealed. Through Chamberlain de Sa, her uncle--or wasit only her cousin?--through de Sa the wife regained her liberty, andthen I believe all three fled to France--the father, son and wife. Butno, they must have come here. . . . "

"There you have it!" cried the magistrate, interrupting the monk, andglancing triumphantly at the prelate. "An old practitioner scents crime, as a tree frog smells rain. Now, for the first time, I can say withcertainty: We have him, and the worst punishment is too little for hisdeserts. There shall be an unparalleled execution, something wonderful, magnificent, grand! You have given me important information, and I thankyou, Father. "

"Then you knew nothing?" faltered the librarian; and, raising his neckhigher than usual, the vein in the centre of his forehead swelled withwrath. 

"No, Anselme!" said the abbot. "But it was your duty to speak, as, unfortunately, it was mine to listen. Come to me again, by and bye; Ihave something to say to you. "

The librarian bowed silently, coldly and proudly, and withoutvouchsafing the magistrate a single glance, went back, not to his books, but to his cell, where he paced up and down a long time, sorrowfullymurmuring Lopez's name, striking himself on the mouth, pressing hisclenched hand to his brow, and at last throwing himself on his knees topray for the Jew, before the image of the crucified Redeemer. 

As soon as the monk had left the room, the magistrate exclaimed:

"What unexpected aid! What series of sins lie before us! First thesmall ones. He had never worn the Jews' badge, and allowed himself to beserved by Christians, for Caspar's daughters were often at the Houseto help in sewing. A sword was found in his dwelling, and the Jew, whocarries weapons, renounces, since he uses self-protection, the aid ofthe authorities. Finally, we know that Lopez used an assumed name. Nowwe come to the great offences. They are divided into four parts. He haspractised magic spells; he has sought to corrupt a Christian's son byheresies; he has led a Christian woman into a marriage; and he has--Iclose with the worst--he has reared the daughter of a Christian woman, Imean his wife, a Jewess!"

"Reared his child a Jewess? Do you know that positively?" asked theabbot. 

"She bears the Jewish name of Ruth. What I have taken the liberty tomake prominent are well chosen, clearly-proved crimes, worthy of death. Your learning is great, Reverend Abbot, but I know the old writers, too. The Emperor Constantius made marriages between Jews and Christianspunishable with death. I can show you the passage. "

The abbot felt that the crime of which the Jew was accused was a heavyand unpardonable one, but he regarded only the sin, and it vexed him tosee how the magistrate's zeal was exclusively turned against the unhappycriminal. So he rose, saying with cold hauteur:

"Then do your duty. "

"Rely upon it. We shall capture him and his family to-morrow. Thetown-clerk is full of zeal too. We shall not be able to harm the child, but it must be taken from the Jew and receive a Christian education. Itwould be our right to do this, even if both parents were Hebrews. Youknow the Freiburg case. No less a personage than the great UlrichZasius has decided, that Jewish children might be baptized without theirfather's knowledge. I beg you to send Father Anselm to the town-hall onSaturday as a witness. "

"Very well, " replied the prelate, but he spoke with so little eagerness, that it justly surprised the magistrate. "Well then, catch the Jew;but take him alive. And one thing more! I wish to see and speak to thedoctor, before you torture him. "

"I will bring him to you day after to-morrow. "

"The Nurembergers! the Nurembergers!. . . " replied the abbot, shrugginghis shoulders. 

"What do you mean?"

"They don't hang any one till they catch him. " The magistrate regardedthese words as a challenge to put forth every effort for the Jew'scapture, so he answered eagerly: "We shall have him, Your Reverence, weshall surely have him. They are trapped in the snow. The sergeants aresearching the roads; I shall summon your foresters and mine, and putthem under Count Frohlinger's command. It is his duty to aid us. Whatthey cannot find with their attendants, squires, beaters and hounds, isnot hidden in the forest. Your blessing, Holy Father, there is no timeto lose. "

The abbot was alone. 

He gazed thoughtfully at the coals in the fireplace, recallingeverything he had just seen and heard, while his vivid power ofimagination showed him the learned, unassuming man, who had spent longyears in quiet seclusion, industriously devoting himself to the pursuitof knowledge. A slight feeling of envy stole into his heart; howrarely he himself was permitted to pursue undisturbed, and withoutinterruption, the scientific subjects, in which alone he found pleasure. 

He was vexed with himself, that he could feel so little anger against acriminal, whose guilt was deserving of death, and reproached himself forlukewarmness. Then he remembered that the Jew had sinned for love, andthat to him who has loved much, much should be forgiven. Finally, it seemed a great boon, that he was soon to be permitted to make theacquaintance of the worthy doctor from Coimbra. Never had the zealousmagistrate appeared so repulsive as to-day, and when he remembered howthe crafty man had outwitted poor Father Anselm in his presence, he feltas if he had himself committed an unworthy deed. And yet, yet--the Jewcould not be saved, and had deserved what threatened him. 

A monk summoned him, but the abbot did not wish to be disturbed, andordered that he should be left an hour alone. 

He now took in his hand a volume he called the mirror of his soul, andin which he noted many things "for the confession, " that he desired todetermine to his own satisfaction. To-day he wrote:

"It would be a duty to hate a Jew and criminal, zealously to persecutewhat Holy Church has condemned. Yet I cannot do so. Who is themagistrate, and what are Father Anselm and this learned doctor! The onenarrow-minded, only familiar with the little world he knows and in whichhe lives, the others divinely-gifted, full of knowledge, rulers in thewide domain of thought. And the former outwits the latter, who showthemselves children in comparison with him. How Anselm stood beforehim! The deceived child was great, the clever man small. What men callcleverness is only small-minded persons' skill in life; simplicity ispeculiar to the truly great man, because petty affairs are too small forhim, and his eye does not count the grains of dust, but looks upward, and has a share in the infinitude stretching before us. Jesus Christwas gentle as a child and loved children, he was the Son of God, yetvoluntarily yielded himself into the hands of men. The greatest of greatmen did not belong to the ranks of the clever. Blessed are the meek, Hesaid. I understand those words. He is meek, whose soul is open, clearand pure as a mirror, and the greatest philosophers, the noblest minds Ihave met in life and history were also meek. The brute is clever; wisdomis the cleverness of the noble-minded. We must all follow the Saviour, and he among us, who unites wisdom to meekness, will come nearest to theRedeemer. "

CHAPTER IX. 

Marx had gone out to reconnoitre in a more cheerful mood, for the doctorhad made good the loss sustained in the death of his old nag, and hereturned at noon with good news. 

A wood-carrier, whom he met on the high-road, had told him where Jorg, the charcoal-burner, lived. 

The fugitives could reach his hut before night, and in so doing approachnearer the Rhine valley. Everything was ready for departure, but oldRahel objected to travelling further. She was sitting on a stone beforethe hut, for the smoke in the narrow room oppressed her breathing, andit seemed as if terror had robbed her of her senses. Gazing into vacancywith wild eyes and chattering teeth, she tried to make cakes and moulddumplings out of the snow, which she probably took for flour. Sheneither heard the doctor's call nor saw his wife beckon, and when theformer grasped her to compel her to rise, uttered a loud shriek. At lastthe smith succeeded in persuading her to sit down on the sledge, and theparty moved forward. 

Adam had harnessed himself to the front of the vehicle. Marx went to andfro, pushing when necessary. The dumb woman waded through the snow byher husband's side. "Poor wife!" he said once; but she pressed his armcloser, looking up into his eyes as if she wished to say: "Surely Ishall lack nothing, if only you are spared to me!"

She enjoyed his presence as if it were a favor granted by destiny, butonly at chance moments, for she could not banish her fear for him, andof the pursuers--her dread of uncertainty and wandering. 

If snow rattled from a pine-tree, if she noticed Lopez turn his head, orif old Rahel uttered a moan, she shuddered; and this was not unperceivedby her husband, who told himself that she had every reason to lookforward to the next few hours with grave anxiety. Each moment mightbring imprisonment to him and all, and if they discovered--if it weredisclosed who he, who Elizabeth was. . . . 

Ulrich and Ruth brought up the rear, saying little to each other. 

At first the path ascended again, then led down to the valley. It hadstopped snowing long before, and the farther they went the lighter thedrifts became. 

They had journeyed in this way for two hours, when Ruth's strengthfailed, and she stood still with tearful, imploring eyes. Thecharcoal-burner saw it, and growled:

"Come here, little girl; I'll carry you to the sleigh. "

"No, let me, " Ulrich eagerly interposed. And Ruth exclaimed:

"Yes, you, you shall carry me. "

Marx grasped her around the waist, lifted her high into the air, andplaced her in the boy's arms. She clasped her hands around his neck, andas he walked on pressed her fresh, cool cheek to his. It pleased him, and the thought entered his mind that he had been parted from her a longtime, and it was delightful to have her again. 

His heart swelled more and more; he felt that he would rather haveRuth than everything else in the world, and he drew her towards him asclosely as if an invisible hand were already out-stretched to take herfrom him. 

To-day her dear, delicate little face was not pale, but glowed crimsonafter the long walk through the frosty, winter air. She was glad tohave Ulrich clasp her so firmly, so she pressed her cheek closer to his, loosened her fingers from his neck, caressingly stroked his face withher cold hand, and murmured:

"You are kind, Ulrich, and I love you!"

It sounded so tender and loving, that Ulrich's heart melted, for no onehad spoken to him so since his mother went away. 

He felt strong and joyous, Ruth did not seem at all heavy, and whenshe again clasped her hands around his neck, he said: "I should like tocarry you so always. "

Ruth only nodded, as if the wish pleased her, but he continued:

"In the monastery I had no one, who was very kind to me, for even Lips, well, he was a count--everybody is kind to you. You don't know what itis, to be all alone, and have to struggle against every one. When I wasin the monastery, I often wished that I was lying under the earth; nowI don't want to die, and we will stay with you--father told me so--andeverything will be just as it was, and I shall learn no more Latin, but become a painter, or smith-artificer, or anything else, for aught Icare, if I'm only not obliged to leave you again. "

He felt Ruth raise her little head, and press her soft lips on hisforehead just over his eyes; then he lowered the arms in which sherested, kissed her mouth, and said: "Now it seems as if I had my motherback again!"

"Does it?" she asked, with sparkling eyes. "Now put me down. I am wellagain, and want to run. "

So saying, she slipped to the ground, and he did not detain her. 

Ruth now walked stoutly on beside the lad, and made him tell her aboutthe bad boys in the monastery, Count Lips, the pictures, the monks, andhis own flight, until, just as it grew dark, they reached the goal oftheir walk. 

Jorg, the charcoal-burner, received them, and opened his hut, but onlyto go away himself, for though willing to give the fugitives shelterand act against the authorities, he did not wish to be present, if therefugees should be caught. Caught with them, hung with them! He knew theproverb, and went down to the village, with the florins Adam gave him. 

There was a hearth for cooking in the hut, and two rooms, one large andone small, for in summer the charcoal-burners' wives and children livewith them. The travellers needed rest and refreshment, and might havefound both here, had not fear embittered the food and driven sleep fromtheir weary eyes. 

Jorg was to return early the next morning with a team of horses. Thiswas a great consolation. Old Rahel, too, had regained her self-control, and was sound asleep. 

The children followed her example, and at midnight Elizabeth slept too. 

Marx lay beside the hearth, and from his crooked mouth came a strange, snoring noise, that sounded like the last note of an organ-pipe, fromwhich the air is expiring. 

Hours after all the others were asleep, Adam and the doctor still sat ona sack of straw, engaged in earnest conversation. 

Lopez had told his friend the story of his happiness and sorrow, closingwith the words:

"So you know who we are, and why we left our home. You are giving meyour future, together with many other things; no gift can repay you; butfirst of all, it was due you that you should know my past. "

Then, holding out his hand to the smith, he asked: "You are a Christian;will you still cleave to me, after what you have heard?"

Adam silently pressed the Jew's right hand, and after remaining lost inthought for a time, said in a hollow tone:

"If they catch you, and--Holy Virgin--if they discover. . . Ruth. . . . Sheis not really a Jew's child. . . Have you reared her as a Jewess?"

"No; only as a good human child. "

"Is she baptized?"

Lopez answered this question also in the negative. The smith shook hishead disapprovingly, but the doctor said: "She knows more about Jesus, than many a Christian child of her age. When she is grown up, she willbe free to follow either her mother or her father. "

"Why have you not become a Christian yourself? Forgive the question. Surely you are one at heart. "

"That, that. . . You see, there are things. . . . Suppose that every malescion of your family, from generation to generation, for many hundredyears, had been a smith, and now a boy should grow up, who said: I--Idespise your trade?'"

"If Ulrich should say: 'I-I wish to be an artist;' it would be agreeableto me. "

"Even if smiths were persecuted like us Jews, and he ran from your guildto another out of fear?"

"No--that would be base, and can scarcely be compared with your case;for see--you are acquainted with everything, even what is calledChristianity; nay, the Saviour is dear to you; you have already told meso. Well then! Suppose you were a foundling and were shown our faith andyours, and asked for which you would decide, which would you choose?"

"We pray for life and peace, and where peace exists, love cannot belacking, and yet! Perhaps I might decide for yours. "

"There you have it. "

"No, no! We have not done with this question so speedily. See, I donot grudge you your faith, nor do I wish to disturb it. The child mustbelieve, that all its parents do and require of him is right, but thestranger sees with different, keener eyes, than the son and daughter. You occupy a filial relation towards your Church--I do not. I know thedoctrine of Jesus Christ, and if I had lived in Palestine in his time, should have been one of the first to follow the Master, but since, fromthose days to the present, much human work has mingled with hissublime teachings. This too must be dear to you, for it belongs to yourparents--but it repels me. I have lived, labored and watched all nightfor the truth, and were I now to come before the baptismal font and say'yes' to everything the priests ask, I should be a liar. "

"They have caused you bitter suffering; tortured your wife, driven youand your family from your home. . . . "

"I have borne all that patiently, " cried the doctor, deeply moved. "Butthere are many other sins now committed against me and mine, for whichthere is no forgiveness. I know the great Pagans and their works. Theirneed of love extends only to the nation, to which they belong, not tohumanity. Unselfish justice, is to them the last thing man owes hisfellow-man. Christ extended love to all nations, His heart was largeenough to love all mankind. Human love, the purest and fairest ofvirtues, is the sublime gift, the noble heritage, he left behind to hisbrothers in sorrow. My heart, the poor heart under this black doublet, this heart was created for human love, this soul thirsted, with all itspowers, to help its neighbors and lighten their sorrows. To exercisehuman love is to be good, but they no longer know it, and what is worse, a thousand times worse, they constantly destroy in me and mine thedesire to be good, good in the sense of their own Master. Worldly wealthis trash--to be rich the poorest happiness. Yet the Jew is not forbiddento strive for this, they take scarcely half his gains;--nor canthey deny him the pursuit of the pleasures of the intellect--pureknowledge--for our minds are not feebler or more idle, and soar no lessboldly than theirs. The prophets came from the East! But the happinessof the soul--the right to exercise charity is denied to us. It is a partof charity for each man to regard his neighbor as himself--to feel forhim, as it were, with his own heart--to lighten his burdens, ministerunto him in his sorrows, and to gladden his happiness. This theChristian denies the Jew. Your love ceases when you meet me and mine, and if I sought to put myself on an equality with the Christian, fromthe pure desire to satisfy his Master's most beautiful lesson, whatwould be my fate? The Jew is not permitted to be good. Not to be good!Whoever imposes that upon his brother, commits a sin for which I know noforgiveness. And if Jesus Christ should return to earth and see the packthat hunts us, surely He, who was human love incarnate, would open Hisarms wide, wide to us, and ask: 'Who are these apostles of hate? I knowthem not!'"

The doctor paused, for the door had opened, and he rose with flushedface to look into the adjoining room; but the smith held him back, saying:

"Stay, stay! Marx went out into the open air. Ah, Sir! no doubt yourwords are true, but were they Jews who crucified the Saviour?"

"And this crime is daily avenged, " replied Lopez. "How many wicked, howmany low souls, who basely squander divine gifts to obtain worthlesspelf, there are among my people! More than half of them are stripped ofhonor and dignity on your altar of vengeance, and thrust into the armsof repulsive avarice. And this, all this. . . . But enough of these things!They rouse my inmost soul to wrath, and I have other matters to discusswith you. "

The scholar now began to speak to the smith, like a dying man, aboutthe future of his family, told him where he had concealed his smallproperty, and did not hide the fact, that his marriage had not onlydrawn upon him the persecution of the Christians, but the curse of hisco-religionists. He took it upon himself to provide for Ulrich, as ifhe were his own child, should any misfortune befall the smith; and Adampromised, if he remained alive and at liberty, to do the same for thedoctor's wife and daughter. 

Meantime, a conversation of a very different nature was held before thehut. 

The poacher was sitting by the fire, when the door opened, and his namewas called. He turned in alarm, but soon regained his composure, for itwas Jorg who beckoned, and then drew him into the forest. 

Marx expected no good news, yet he started when his companion said:

"I know now, who the man is you have brought. He's a Jew. Don't try tohumbug me. The constable from the city has come to the village. The man, who captures the Israelite, will get fifteen florins. Fifteen florins, good money. The magistrate will count it, all on one board, and thevicar says. . . . "

"I don't care much for your priests, " replied Marx. "I am fromWeinsberg, and have found the Jew a worthy man. No one shall touch him. "

"A Jew, and a good man!" cried Jurg, laughing. "If you won't help, somuch the worse for you. You'll risk your neck, and the fifteen florins. . . . Will you go shares? Yes or no?"

"Heaven's thunder!" murmured the poacher, his crooked mouth watering. "How much is half of fifteen florins?"

"About seven, I should say. "

"A calf and a pig. "

"A swine for the Jew, that will suit. You'll keep him here in the trap. "

"I can't, Jorg; by my soul, I can't! Let me alone!"

"Very well, for aught I care; but the legal gentlemen. The gallows haswaited for you long enough!"

"I can't; I can't. I've been an honest man all my life, and the smithAdam and his dead father have shown me many a kindness. "

"Who means the smith any harm?"

"The receiver is as bad as the thief. If they catch him. . . . "

"He'll be put in the stocks for a week. That's the worst that can befallhim. "

"No, no. Let me alone, --or I'll tell Adam what you're plotting. . . . "

"Then I'll denounce you first, you gallows' fruit, you rogue, youpoacher. They've suspected you a long time! Will you change your mindnow, you blockhead?"

"Yes, yes; but Ulrich is here too, and the boy is as dear to me as myown child. "

"I'll come here later, say that no vehicle can be had, and take him awaywith me. When it's all over, I'll let him go. "

"Then I'll keep him. He already helps me as much, as if he were a grownman. Oh, dear, dear! The Jew, the gentle man, and the poor women, andthe little girl, Ruth. . . . "

"Big Jews and little Jews, nothing more. You've told me yourself, howthe Hebrews were persecuted in your dead father's day. So we'll goshares. There's a light in the room still. You'll detain them. CountFrohlinger has been at his hunting-box since last evening. . . . If theyinsist on moving forward, guide them to the village. "

"And I've been an honest man all my life, " whined the poacher, and thencontinued, threateningly: "If you harm a hair on Ulrich's head. . . . "

"Fool that you are! I'll willingly leave the big feeder to you. Go innow, then I'll come and fetch the boy. There's money at stake--fifteenflorins!" Fifteen minutes after, Jorg entered the hut. 

The smith and the doctor believed the charcoal-burner, when he told themthat all the vehicles in the village were in use, but he would findone elsewhere. They must let the boy go with him, to enquire at thefarm-houses in another village. Somebody would doubtless be found torisk his horses. The lad looked like a young nobleman, and the peasantswould take earnest-money from him. If he, Jorg, should show themflorins, it would get him into a fine scrape. The people knew he was aspoor as a beggar. 

The smith asked the poacher's opinion, and the latter growled:

"That will, doubtless, be a good plan. "

He said no more, and when Adam held out his hand to the boy, and kissedhim on the forehead, and the doctor bade him an affectionate farewell, Marx called himself a Judas, and would gladly have flung the temptingflorins to the four winds, but it was too late. 

The smith and Lopez heard him call anxiously to Jorg: "Take good care ofthe boy!" And when Adam patted him on the shoulder, saying: "You are afaithful fellow, Marx!" he could have howled like a mastiff and revealedall; but it seemed as if he again felt the rope around his neck, so hekept silence. 

CHAPTER X. 

The grey dawn was already glimmering, yet neither the expected vehiclenor Jorg had come. Old Rahel, usually an early riser, was sleeping assoundly as if she had to make up the lost slumber of ten nights; but thesmith's anxiety would no longer allow him to remain in the close room. Ruth followed him into the open air, and when she timidly touchedhim--for there had always been something unapproachable to her in thesilent man's gigantic figure--he looked at her from head to foot, withstrange, questioning sympathy, and then asked suddenly, with a hasteunusual to him. 

"Has your father told you about Jesus Christ?"

"Often!" replied Ruth. 

"And do you love Him?"

"Dearly. Father says He loved all children, and called them to Him. "

"Of course, of course!" replied the smith, blushing with shame for hisown distrust. 

The doctor did not follow the others, and as soon as his wife saw thatthey were alone, she beckoned to him. 

Lopez sat down on the couch beside her, and took her hand. The slenderfingers trembled in his clasp, and when, with loving anxiety, he drewher towards him, he felt the tremor of her delicate limbs, while hereyes expressed bitter suffering and terrible dread. 

"Are you afraid?" he asked, tenderly. 

Elizabeth shuddered, threw her arms passionately around his neck, andnodded assent. 

"The wagon will convey us to the Rhine Valley, please God, this veryday, and there we shall be safe, " he continued, soothingly. But sheshook her head, her features assuming an expression of indifference andcontempt. Lopez understood how to read their meaning, and asked: "So itis not the bailiffs you fear; something else is troubling you?"

She nodded again, this time still more eagerly, drew out the crucifix, which she had hitherto kept concealed under her coverlid, showed it tohim, then pointed upward towards heaven, lastly to herself and him, andshrugged her shoulders with an air of deep, mournful renunciation. 

"You are thinking of the other world, " said Lopez; then, fixing his eyeson the ground, he continued, in a lower tone: "I know you are torturedby the fear of not meeting me there. "

"Yes, " she gasped, with a great effort, pressing her forehead againsthis shoulder. 

A hot tear fell on the doctor's hand, and he felt as if his own heartwas weeping with his beloved, anxious wife. 

He knew that this thought had often poisoned her life and, full oftender sympathy, turned her beautiful face towards him and pressed along kiss on her closed eyes, then said, tenderly:

"You are mine, I am yours, and if there is a life beyond the grave, and an eternal justice, the dumb will speak as they desire, and singwondrous songs with the angels; the sorrowful will again be happy there. We will hope, we will both hope! Do you remember how I read Dante aloudto you, and tried to explain his divine creation, as we sat on the benchby the fig-tree. The sea roared below us, and our hearts swelled higherthan its storm-lashed waves. How soft was the air, how bright thesunshine! This earth seemed doubly beautiful to you and me as, led bythe hand of the divine seer and singer, we descended shuddering to thenether world. There the good and noble men of ancient times walked in aflowery meadow, and among them the poet beheld in solitary grandeur--doyou still remember how the passage runs? 'E solo in parte vidi 'lSaladino. ' Among them he also saw the Moslem Saladin, the conqueror ofthe Christians. If any one possessed the key of the mysteries of theother world, Elizabeth, it was Dante. He assigned a lofty place to thepagan, who was a true man--a man with a pure mind, a zeal for goodnessand right, and I think I shall have a place there too. Courage, Elizabeth, courage!"

A beautiful smile had illumined the wife's features, while she wasreminded of the happiest hours of her life, but when he paused, gazedinto her eyes, and clasped her right hand in his, she was seized withan intense longing to pray once, only once, with him to the Saviour so, drawing her fingers from his, she pressed the image of the CrucifiedOne to her breast with her left hand, pleading with mute motions of herlips, ineligible to him alone, and with ardent entreaty in her large, tearful eyes: "Pray, pray with me, pray to the saviour. "

Lopez was greatly agitated; his heart beat faster, and a strong impulseurged him to start up, cry "no, " and not allow himself to be moved, byan affectionate meakness, into bowing his manly soul before one, who, tohim, was no more than human. 

The noble figure of the crucified Saviour, carved by an artist's hand inivory, hung from an ebony cross, and he thrust the image back, intendingto turn proudly way, he gazed at the face and found there only pain, quiet endurance, and touching sorrow. Ah, his own heart had often bled, as the pure brow of this poor, persecuted, tortured saint bled beneathits crown of thorns. To defy this silent companion in suffering, wasno manly deed--to pay homage, out of love, to Him, who had broughtlove into the world, seemed to possess a sweet, ensnaring charm--so heclasped his slender hands closely round his dumb wife's fingers, pressedhis dark curls against Elizabeth's fair hair, and both, for the firstand last time, repeated together a mute, fervent prayer. 

Before the hut, and surrounded by the forest, was a large clearing, where two roads crossed. 

Adam, Marx and Ruth had gazed first down one and then the other, to lookfor the wagon, but nothing was to be seen or heard. As, with increasinganxiety, they turned back to the first path, the poacher grew restless. His crooked mouth twisted to and fro in strange contortions, not amuscle of his coarse face was till, and this looked so odd and yet sohorrible, that Ruth could not help laughing, and the smith asked whatailed him. 

Marx made no reply; his ear had caught the distant bay of a dog, and heknew what the sound meant. Work at the anvil impairs the hearing, andthe smith did not notice the approaching peril, and repeated: "What ailsyou, man?"

"I am freezing, " replied the charcoal-burner, cowering, with a piteousexpression. 

Ruth heard no more of the conversation, she had stopped and put herhand to her ear, listening with head bent forward, to the noises in thedistance. 

Suddenly she uttered a low cry, exclaiming: "There's a dog barking, Meister Adam, I hear it. "

The smith turned pale and shook his head, but she cried earnestly:"Believe me; I hear it. Now it's barking again. "

Adam too, now heard a strange noise in the forest. With lightning speedhe loosened the hammer in his belt, took Ruth by the hand, and ran upthe clearing with her. 

Meantime, Lopez had compelled old Rahel to rise. 

Everything must be ready, when Ulrich returned. In his impatience he hadgone to the door, and when he saw Adam hurrying up the glade with thechild, ran anxiously to meet them, thinking that some accident hadhappened to Ulrich. 

"Back, back!" shouted the smith, and Ruth, releasing her hand from his, also motioned and shrieked "Back, back!"

The doctor obeyed the warning, and stopped; but he had scarcely turned, when several dogs appeared at the mouth of the ravine through which theparty had come the day before, and directly after Count Frohlinger, onhorseback, burst from the thicket. 

The nobleman sat throned on his spirited charger, like the sun-godSiegfried. His fair locks floated dishevelled around his head, the steamrising from the dripping steed hovered about him in the fresh winter airlike a light cloud. He had opened and raised his arms, and holdingthe reins in his left hand, swung his hunting spear with the right. Onperceiving Lopez, a clear, joyous, exultant "Hallo, Halali!" rang fromhis bearded lips. 

To-day Count Frohlinger was not hunting the stag, but special game, aJew. 

The chase led to the right cover, and how well the hounds had done, howstoutly Emir, his swift hunter, had followed. 

This was a morning's work indeed!

"Hallo, Halali!" he shouted exultingly again, and ere the fugitives hadescaped from the clearing, reached the doctor's side, exclaiming:

"Here is my game; to your knees, Jew!"

The count had far outstripped his attendants, and was entirely alone. 

As Lopez stood still with folded arms, paying no heed to his command, heturned the spear, to strike him with the handle. 

Then, for the first time in many years, the old fury awoke in Adam'sheart; and rushing upon the count like a tiger, he threw his powerfularms around his waist, and ere he was aware of the attack, hurled himfrom his horse, set his knee on his breast, snatched the hammer from hisbelt, and with a mighty blow struck the dog that attacked him, to theearth. Then he again swung the iron, to crush the head of his hated foe. But Lopez would not accept deliverance at such a price, and cried in atone of passionate entreaty:

"Let him go, Adam, spare him. "

As he spoke, he clung to the smith's arm, and when the latter tried torelease himself from his grasp, said earnestly:

"We will not follow their example!"

Again the hammer whizzed high in the air, and again the Jew clung to thesmith's arm, this time exclaiming imperiously:

"Spare him, if you are my friend!"

What was his strength in comparison with Adam's? Yet as the hammerrose for the third time, he again strove to prevent the terrible deed, seizing the infuriated man's wrist, and gasping, as in the struggle hefell on his knees beside the count: "Think of Ulrich! This man's son wasthe only one, the only one in the whole monastery, who stood by Ulrich, your child--in the monastery--he was--his friend--among so many. Sparehim--Ulrich! For Ulrich's sake, spare him!"

During this struggle the smith had held the count down with his lefthand, and defended himself against Lopez with the right. 

One jerk, and the hand upraised for murder was free again--but he didnot use it. His friend's last words had paralyzed him. 

"Take it, " he said in a hollow tone, giving the hammer to the doctor. 

The latter seized it, and rising joyously, laid his hand on the shoulderof the smith, who was still kneeling on the count's breast, and saidbeseechingly: "Let that suffice. The man is only. . . . "

He went no farther--a gurgling, piercing cry of pain escaped his lips, and pressing one hand to his breast, and the other to his brow, he sankon the snow beside the stump of a giant pine. 

A squire dashed from the forest--the archer, to whom this noble quarryhad fallen a victim, appeared in the clearing, holding aloft thecross-bow from which he had sent the bolt. His arrow was fixed in thedoctor's breast; alas, the man had only sent the shaft, to save hisfallen master from the hammer in the Jew's hand. 

Count Frohlinger rose, struggling for breath; his hand sought hishunting-knife, but in the fall it had slipped from its sheath and waslying in the snow. 

Adam supported his dying friend in his arms, Ruth ran weeping to thehut, and before the nobleman had fully collected his thoughts, thesquire reached his side, and young Count Lips, riding a swift bay-horse, dashed from the forest, closely followed by three mounted huntsmen. 

When the attendants saw their master on foot, they too sprang from theirsaddles, Lips did the same, and an eager interchange of question andanswer began among them. 

The nobleman scarcely noticed his son, but greeted with angry words theman who had shot the Jew. Then, deeply excited, he hoarsely ordered hisattendants to bind the smith, who made no resistance, but submitted toeverything like a patient child. 

Lopez no longer needed his arms. 

The dumb wife sat on the stump, with her dying husband resting on herlap. She had thrown her arms around the bleeding form, and the feet hunglimply down, touching the snow. 

Ruth, sobbing bitterly, crouched on the ground by her mother's side, andold Rahel, who had entirely regained her self-control, pressed a cloth, wet with wine, on his forehead. 

The young count approached the dying Jew. His father slowly followed, drew the boy to his side, and said in a low, sad tone:

"I am sorry for the man; he saved my life. "

The wounded man opened his eyes, saw Count Frohlinger, his son and thefettered smith, felt his wife's tears on his brow, and heard Ruth'sagonized weeping. A gentle smile hovered around his pale lips, and whenhe tried to raise his head Elizabeth helped him, pressing it gently toher breast. 

The feeble lips moved and Lopez raised his eyes to her face, as ifto thank her, saying in a low voice: "The arrow--don't touch it. . . . Elizabeth--Ruth, we have clung together faithfully, but now--I shallleave you alone, I must leave you. " He paused, a shadow clouded hiseyes, and the lids slowly fell. But he soon raised them again, andfixing his glance steadily on the count, said:

"Hear me, my Lord; a dying man should be heard, even if he is a Jew. See! This is my wife, and this my child. They are Christians. They willsoon be alone in the world, deserted, orphaned. The smith is their onlyfriend. Set him free; they--they, they will need a protector. My wifeis dumb, dumb. . . Alone in the world. She can neither beseech nor demand. Set Adam free, for the sake of your Saviour, your son, free--yes, free. A wide, wide space must be between you; he must go away with them, faraway. Set him free! I held his arm with the hammer. . . . You know--withthe hammer. Set him free. My death--death atones for everything. "

Again his voice failed, and the count, deeply moved, looked irresolutelynow at him, now at the smith. Lips's eyes filled with tears; and ashe saw his father delay in fulfilling the dying man's last wish, and aglance from the dim eyes met his, he pressed closer to the noble, whostood struggling with many contending emotions, and whispered, weeping:

"My Lord and Father, my Lord and Father, tomorrow will be Christmas. For Christ's sake, for love of me, grant his request: release Ulrich'sfather, set him free! Do so, my noble Father; I want no other Christmasgift. "

Count Frohlinger's heart also overflowed, and when, raising histear-dimmed eyes, he saw Elizabeth's deep grief stamped on her gentlefeatures, and beheld reclining on her breast, the mild, beautiful faceof the dying man, it seemed as if he saw before him the sorrowful Motherof God--and to-morrow would be Christmas. Wounded pride was silent, heforgot the insult he had sustained, and cried in a voice as loud, as ifhe wished every word to reach the ear now growing dull in death:

"I thank you for your aid, man. Adam is free, and may go with your wifeand child wherever he lists. My word upon it; you can close your eyes inpeace!"

Lopez smiled again, raised his hand as if in gratitude, then let it fallupon his child's head, gazed lovingly at Ruth for the last time, andmurmured in a low tone "Lift my head a little higher, Elizabeth. " Whenshe had obeyed his wish, he gazed earnestly into her face, whisperedsoftly: "A dreamless sleep--reanimated to new forms in the endlesscircle. No!--Do you see, do you hear. . . . Solo in parte'. . . Withyou. . . With you. . . . Oh, oh!--the arrow--draw the arrow from the wound. Elizabeth, Elizabeth--it aches. Well--well--how miserable we were, andyet, yet. . . . You--you--I--we--we know, what happiness is. You--I . . . Forgive me! I forgive, forgive. . . . "

The dying man's hand fell from his child's head, his eyes closed, butthe pleasant smile with which he had perished, hovered around his lips, even in death. 

CHAPTER XI. 

Count Frohlinger added a low "amen" to the last words of the dying man, then approached the widow, and in the kindly, cordial manner natural tohim, strove to comfort her. 

Finally he ordered his men, to loose the smith's bonds, and instantlyguide him to the frontier with the woman and child. He also spoke toAdam, but said only a few words, not cheery ones as usual, but grave andharsh in purport. 

They were a command to leave the country without delay, and never returnto his home again. 

The Jew's corpse was laid on a bier formed of pine, branches, and thebearers lifted it on their shoulders. Ruth clung closely to her mother, both trembling like leaves in the wind, while he who was dearest to themon earth was borne away, but only the child could weep. 

The men, whom Count Frohlinger had left behind as a guard, waitedpatiently with the smith for his son's return until noon, then theyurged departure, and the party moved forward. 

Not a word was spoken, till the travellers stopped before thecharcoal-burner's house. 

Jorg was in the city, but his wife said that the boy had been there, andhad gone back to the forest an hour before. The tavern could accommodatea great many people, she added, and they could wait for him there. 

The fugitives followed this advice, and after Adam had seen the womenprovided with shelter, he again sought the scene of the misfortune, andwaited there for the boy until night. 

Beside the stump on which his friend had died, he prayed long andearnestly, vowing to his dead preserver to live henceforth solely forhis family. Unbroken stillness surrounded him, it seemed as if he werein church, and every tree in the forest was a witness of the oath heswore. 

The next morning the smith again sought the charcoal-burner, and thistime found him. Jorg laid the blame to Ulrich's impatience, but promisedto go to Marx in search of him and bring him to the smith. The mencomposing the escort urged haste, so Adam went on without Ulrich towardsthe north-west, to the valley of the Rhine. 

The charcoal-burner had lost the reward offered the informer, and couldnot even earn the money due a messenger. 

He had lured Ulrich to the attic and locked him in there, but during hisabsence the boy escaped. He was a nimble fellow, for he had risked theleap from the window, and then swung himself over the fence into theroad. 

Jorg's conjecture did not deceive him, for as soon as Ulrich perceivedthat he had been betrayed into a trap, he had leaped into the open air. 

He must warn his friends, and anxiety for them winged his feet. 

Once and again he lost his way, but at last found the right path, thoughhe had wasted many hours, first in the village, then behind the lockeddoor, and finally in searching for the right road. 

The sun had already passed the meridian, when he at last reached theclearing. 

The but was deserted; no one answered his loud, anxious shouts. 

Where had they gone?

He searched the wide, snow-covered expanse for traces, and found onlytoo many. Here horses' hoofs, there large and small feet had pressedthe snow, yonder hounds had run, and--Great Heaven!--here, by thetree-stump, red blood stained the glimmering white ground. 

His breath failed, but he did not cease to search, look, examine. 

Yonder, where for the length of a man the snow had vanished and grassand brown earth appeared, people had fought together, and there--HolyVirgin! What was this!--there lay his father's hammer. He knew it onlytoo well; it was the smaller one, which to distinguish it from the twolarger tools, Goliath and Samson, he called David-the boy had swung it ahundred times himself. 

His heart stood still, and when he found some freshly-hewn pine-boughs, and a fir-trunk that had been rejected by one of the men, he said tohimself: "The bier was made here, " and his vivid imagination showedhim his father fighting, struck down, and then a mournful funeralprocession. Exulting bailiffs bore a tall strong-limbed corpse, and aslender, black-robed body, his father and his teacher. Then came thequiet, beautiful wife and Ruth in bonds, and behind them Marx and Rahel. He distinctly saw all this; it even seemed as if he heard the sobs ofthe women, and wailing bitterly, he thrust his hands in his floatinglocks and ran to and fro. Suddenly he thought that the troopers wouldreturn to seize him also. Away, away! anywhere--away! a voice roared andbuzzed in his ears, and he set out on a run towards the south, alwaystowards the south. 

The boy had not eaten a mouthful, since the oatmeal porridge obtainedat the charcoal-burner's, in the morning, but felt neither hunger northirst, and dashed on and on without heeding the way. 

Long after his father had left the clearing for the second time, hestill ran on--but gasping for breath while his steps grew slower andshorter. The moon rose, one star after another revealed its light, yethe still struggled forward. 

The forest lay behind him; he had reached a broad road, which hefollowed southward, always southward, till his strength utterly failed. His head and hands were burning like fire, yet it was very, very cold;but little snow lay here in the valley, and in many places the moonlightshowed patches of bare, dark turf. 

Grief was forgotten. Fatigue, anxiety and hunger completely engrossedthe boy's mind. He felt tempted to throw himself down in the roadand sleep, but remembered the frozen people of whom he had heard, anddragged himself on to the nearest village. The lights had long beenextinguished; as he approached, dogs barked in the yards, and themelancholy lowing of a cow echoed from many a stable. He was again amonghuman beings; the thought exerted a soothing influence; he regained hisself-control, and sought a shelter for the night. 

At the end of the village stood a barn, and Ulrich noticed by themoonlight an open hatchway in the wall. If he could climb up to it! Theframework offered some support for fingers and toes, so he resolved totry it. 

Several times, when Half-way up, he slipped to the ground, but at lastreached the top, and found a bed in the soft hay under a shelteringroof. Surrounded by the fragrance of the dried grasses, he soon fellasleep, and in a dream saw amidst various confused and repulsive shapes, first his father with a bleeding wound in his broad chest, and then thedoctor, dancing with old Rahel. Last of all Ruth appeared; she led himinto the forest to a juniper-bush, and showed him a nest full of youngbirds. But the half-naked creatures vexed him, and he trampled themunder foot, over which the little girl lamented so loudly and bitterly, that he awoke. 

Morning was already dawning, his head ached, and he was very cold andhungry, but he had no desire nor thought except to proceed; so he againwent out into the open air, brushed off the hay that still clung to hishair and clothes, and walked on towards the south. 

It had grown warmer and was beginning to snow heavily. 

Walking became more and more difficult; his headache grew unendurable, yet his feet still moved, though it seemed as if he wore heavy leadenshoes. 

Several freight-wagons with armed escorts, and a few peasants, withrosaries in their hands, who were on their way to church, met the lad, but no one had overtaken him. 

On the hinge of noon he heard behind him the tramp of horses' hoofs andthe rattle of wheels, approaching nearer and nearer with ominous haste. 

If it should be the troopers!

Ulrich's heart stood still, and turning to look back, he saw severalhorsemen, who were trotting past a spur of the hill around which theroad wound. 

Through the falling flakes the boy perceived glittering weapons, gaydoublets and scarfs, and now--now--all hope was over, they wore CountFrohlinger's colors!

Unless the earth should open before him, there was no escape. The roadbelonged to the horsemen; on the right lay a wide, snow-covered plain, on the left rose a cliff, kept from falling on the side towards thehighway by a rude wall. It needed this support less on account of theroad, than for the sake of a graveyard, for which the citizens of theneighboring borough used the gentle slope of the mountain. 

The graves, the bare elder-bushes and bushy cypresses in the cemeterywere covered with snow, and the brighter the white covering that restedon every surrounding object, the stronger was the relief in which theblack crosses stood forth against it. 

A small chapel in the rear of the graveyard caught Ulrich's eye. If itwas possible to climb the wall, he might hide behind it. The horsemenwere already close at his heels, when he summoned all his remainingstrength, rushed to a stone projecting from the wall, and began toclamber up. 

The day before it would have been a small matter for him to reach thecemetery; but now the exhausted boy only dragged himself upward, toslip on the smooth stones and lose the hold, that the dry, snow-coveredplants growing in the wide crevices treacherously offered him. 

The horsemen had noticed him, and a young man-at-arms exclaimed: "Arunaway! See how the young vagabond acts. I'll seize him. "

He set spurs to his horse as he spoke, and just as the boy succeededin reaching his goal, grasped his foot; but Ulrich clung fast to agravestone, so the shoe was left in the trooper's hand and his comradesburst into a loud laugh. It sounded merry, but it echoed in the earsof the tortured lad like a shriek from hell, and urged him onward. Heleaped over two, five, ten graves--then he stumbled over a head-stoneconcealed by the snow. 

With a great effort he rose again, but ere he reached the chapel fellonce more, and now his will was paralyzed. In mortal terror he clung toa cross, and as his senses failed, thought of "the word. " It seemedas if some one had called the right one, and from pure Weakness andfatigue, he could not remember it. 

The young soldier was not willing to encounter the jeers of hiscomrades, by letting the vagabond escape. With a curt: "Stop, yourascal, " he threw the shoe into the graveyard, gave his bridle to thenext man in the line; and a few minutes after was kneeling by Ulrich'sside. He shook and jerked him, but in vain; then growing anxious, calledto the others that the boy was probably dead. 

"People never die so quickly!" cried the greyhaired leader of the band:"Give him a blow. "

The youth raised his arm, but did not strike the lad. He had looked intoUlrich's face, and found something there that touched his heart. "No, no, " he shouted, "come up here, Peter; a handsome boy; but it's all overwith him, I say. "

During this delay, the traveller whom the men were escorting, and hisold servant, approached the cemetery at a rapid trot. The former, agentleman of middle age, protected from the cold by costly furs, sawwith a single hasty glance the cause of the detention. 

Instantly dismounting, he followed the leader of the troop to the end ofthe wall, where there was a flight of rude steps. 

Ulrich's head now lay in the soldier's arms, and the traveller gazedat him with a look of deep sympathy. The steadfast glance of his brighteyes rested on the boy's features as if spellbound, then he raised hishand, beckoned to the elder soldier, and exclaimed: "Lift him; we'lltake him with us; a corner can be found in the wagon. "

The vehicle, of which the traveller spoke, was slow in coming. It was along four-wheeled equipage, over which, as a protection against wind andstorm, arched a round, sail-cloth cover. The driver crouched among thestraw in a basket behind the horses, like a brooding hen. 

Under the sheltering canopy, among the luggage of the fur-cladgentleman, sat and reclined four travellers, whom the owner of thevehicle had gradually picked up, and who formed a motley company. 

The two Dominican friars, Magisters Sutor and Stubenrauch, had enteredat Cologne, for the wagon came straight from Holland, and belongedto the artist Antonio Moor of Utrecht, who was going to King Philip'scourt. The beautiful fur border on the black cap and velvet cloak showedthat he had no occasion to practise economy; he preferred the back of agood horse to a seat in a jolting vehicle. 

The ecclesiastics had taken possession of the best places in the backof the wagon. They were inseparable brothers, and formed as it were oneperson, for they behaved like two bodies with one soul. In thisdouble life, fat Magister Sutor represented the will, lean Stubenrauchreflection and execution. If the former proposed to be down or sit, eator drink, sleep or talk, the latter instantly carried the suggestioninto execution, rarely neglecting to establish, by wise words, for whatreason the act in question should be performed precisely at that time. 

Farther towards the front, with his back resting against a chest, lay afine-looking young Lansquenet. He was undoubtedly a gay, active fellow, but now sat mute and melancholy, supporting with his right hand hiswounded left arm, as if it were some brittle vessel. 

Opposite to him rose a heap of loose straw, beneath which somethingstirred from time to time, and from which at short intervals a slightcough was heard. 

As soon as the door in the back of the vehicle opened, and the coldsnowy air entered the dark, damp space under the tilt, Magister Sutor'slips parted in a long-drawn "Ugh!" to which his lean companion instantlyadded a torrent of reproachful words about the delay, the draught, thedanger of taking cold. 

When the artist's head appeared in the opening, the priest paused, forMoor paid the travelling expenses; but when his companion Sutor drewhis cloak around him with every token of discomfort and annoyance, hefollowed his example in a still more conspicuous way. 

The artist paid no heed to these gestures, but quietly requested hisguests to make room for the boy. 

A muffled head was suddenly thrust out from under the straw, a voicecried: "A hospital on wheels!" then the head vanished again like that ofa fish, which has risen to take a breath of air. 

"Very true, " replied the artist. "You need not draw up your limbs sofar, my worthy Lansquenet, but I must request these reverend gentlemento move a little farther apart, or closer together, and make room forthe sick lad on the leather sack. "

While these words were uttered, one of the escort laid the stillsenseless boy under the tilt. 

Magister Sutor noticed the snow that clung to Ulrich's hair andclothing, and while struggling to rise, uttered a repellent "no, " whileStubenrauch hastily added reproachfully: "There will be a perfect poolhere, when that melts; you gave us these places, Meister Moor, but wehardly expected to receive also dripping limbs and rheumatic pains. . . . "

Before he finished the sentence, the bandaged head again appeared fromthe straw, and the high, shrill voice of the man concealed under it, asked? "Was the blood of the wounded wayfarer, the good Samaritan pickedup by the roadside, dry or wet?"

An encouraging glance from Sutor requested Stubenrauch to make anappropriate answer, and the latter in an unctuous tone, hastily replied:"It was the Lord, who caused the Samaritan to find the wounded man bythe roadside--this did not happen in our case, for the wet boy is forcedupon us, and though we are Samaritans. . . . "

"You are not yet merciful, " cried the voice from the straw. 

The artist laughed, but the soldier, slapping his thigh with his soundhand, cried:

"In with the boy, you fellows outside; here, put him on my right--movefarther apart, you gentlemen down below; the water will do us no harm, if you'll only give us some of the wine in your basket yonder. "

The priests, willy-nilly, now permitted Ulrich to be laid on theleathern sack between them, and while first Sutor, and then Stubenrauch, shrunk away to mutter prayers over a rosary for the senseless lad'srestoration to consciousness, and to avoid coming in contact withhis wet clothes, the artist entered the vehicle, and without askingpermission, took the wine from the priests' basket. The soldier helpedhim, and soon their united exertions, with the fiery liquor, revived thefainting boy. 

Moor rode forward, and the wagon jolted on until the day's journey endedat Emmendingen. Count von Hochburg's retainers, who were to serve asescort from this point, would not ride on Christmas day. The artist madeno objection, but when they also declared that no horse should leavethe stable on the morrow, which was a second holiday, he shruggedhis shoulders and answered, without any show of anger, but in a firm, haughty tone, that he should then probably be obliged--if necessary withtheir master's assistance, --to conduct them to Freiburg to-morrow. 

The inns at Emmendingen were among the largest and best in theneighborhood of Freiburg, and on account of the changes of escort, which frequently took place here, there was no lack of accommodation fornumerous horses and guests. 

As soon as Ulrich was taken into the warm hostelry he fainted a secondtime, and the artist now cared for him as kindly as if he were the lad'sown father. 

Magister Sutor ordered the roast meats, and his companion Stubenrauchall the other requisites for a substantial meal, in which they had madeconsiderable progress, while the artist was still engaged in ministeringto the sick lad, in which kindly office the little man, who had beenhidden under the straw in the wagon, stoutly assisted. 

He had been a buffoon, and his dress still bore many tokens of hisformer profession. His big head swayed upon his thin neck; his droll, though emaciated features constantly changed their expression, and evenwhen he was not coughing, his mouth was continually in motion. 

As soon as Ulrich breathed calmly and regularly, he searched hisclothing to find some clue to his residence, but everything hediscovered in the lad's pockets only led to more and more amusing andstartling conjectures, for nothing can contain a greater variety ofobjects than a school-boy's pockets, if we except a school-girl's. 

There was a scrap of paper with a Latin exercise bristling with errors, a smooth stone, a shabby, notched knife, a bit of chalk for drawing, aniron arrow-head, a broken hobnail, and a falconer's glove, which CountLips had given his comrade. The ring the doctor's wife had bestowed as afarewell token, was also discovered around his neck. 

All these things led Pellicanus--so the jester was named--to make many aconjecture, and he left none untried. 

As a mosaic picture is formed from stones, he by a hundred signs, conjured up a vision of the lad's character, home, and the school fromwhich he had run away. 

He called him the son of a noble of moderate property. In this he wasof course mistaken, but in other respects perceived, with wonderfulacuteness, how Ulrich had hitherto been circumstanced, nay even declaredthat he was a motherless child, a fact proved by many things he lacked. The boy had been sent to school too late--Pellicanus was a good Latinscholar--and perhaps had been too early initiated into the mysteries ofriding, hunting, and woodcraft. 

The artist, merely by the boy's appearance, gained a more accurateknowledge of his real nature, than the jester gathered from hisinvestigations and inferences. 

Ulrich pleased him, and when he saw the pen-and-ink sketch on theback of the exercise, which Pellicanus showed him, he smiled and feltstrengthened in the resolve to interest himself still more in thehandsome boy, whom fate had thrown in his way. He now only needed todiscover who the lad's parents were, and what had driven him from theschool. 

The surgeon of the little town had bled Ulrich, and soon after he fellinto a sound sleep, and breathed quietly. The artist and jester nowdined together, for the monks had finished their meal long before, andwere taking a noonday nap. Moor ordered roast meat and wine for theLansquenet, who sat modestly in one corner of the large public room, gazing sadly at his wounded arm. 

"Poor fellow!" said the jester, pointing to the handsome young man. "Weare brothers in calamity; one just like the other; a cart with a brokenwheel. "

"His arm will soon heal, " replied the artist, "but your tool"--here hepointed to his own lips--"is stirring briskly enough now. The monks andI have both made its acquaintance within the past few days. "

"Well, well, " replied Pellicanus, smiling bitterly, "yet they toss meinto the rubbish heap. "

"That would be. . . . "

"Ah, you think the wise would then be fools with the fools, " interruptedPellicanus. "Not at all. Do you know what our masters expect of us?"

"You are to shorten the time for them with wit and jest. "

"But when must we be real fools, my Lord? Have you considered? Leastof all in happy hours. Then we are expected to play the wise man, warnagainst excess, point out shadows. In sorrow, in times of trouble, then, fool, be a fool! The madder pranks you play, the better. Make everyeffort, and if you understand your trade well, and know your master, you must compel him to laugh till he cries, when he would fain wail forgrief, like a little girl. You know princes too, sir, but I know thembetter. They are gods on earth, and won't submit to the universal lot ofmortals, to endure pain and anguish. When people are ill, the physicianis summoned, and in trouble we are at hand. Things are as we takethem--the gravest face may have a wart, upon which a jest can be made. When you have once laughed at a misfortune, its sting loses its point. We deaden it--we light up the darkness--even though it be with a will'o the wisp--and if we understand our business, manage to hack the lumpydough of heavy sorrow into little pieces, which even a princely stomachcan digest. "

"A coughing fool can do that too, so long as there is nothing wanting inhis upper story. "

"You are mistaken, indeed you are. Great lords only wish to see thevelvet side of life--of death's doings, nothing at all. A man likeme--do you hear--a cougher, whose marrow is being consumed--incarnatemisery on two tottering legs--a piteous figure, whom one can no moreimagine outside the grave, than a sportsman without a terrier, orhound--such a person calls into the ears of the ostrich, that shuts itseyes: 'Death is pointing at you! Affliction is coming!' It is my dutyto draw a curtain between my lord and sorrow; instead of that, my ownperson brings incarnate suffering before his eyes. The elector was aswise as if he were his own fool, when he turned me out of the house. "

"He graciously gave you leave of absence. "

"And Gugelkopf is already installed in the palace as my successor! Mygracious master knows that he won't have to pay the pension long. Hewould willingly have supported me up yonder till I died; but my wish togo to Genoa suited him exactly. The more distance there is between hishealthy highness and the miserable invalid, the better. "

"Why didn't you wait till spring, before taking your departure?"

"Because Genoa is a hot-house, that the poor consumptive does not needin summer. It is pleasant to be there in winter. I learned that threeyears ago, when we visited the duke. Even in January the sun in Liguriawarms your back, and makes it easier to breathe. I'm going by way ofMarseilles. Will you give me the corner in your carriage as far asAvignon?"

"With pleasure! Your health, Pellicanus! A good wish on Christmas day isapt to be fulfilled. "

The artist's deep voice sounded full and cordial, as he uttered thewords. The young soldier heard them, and as Moor and the jester touchedglasses, he raised his own goblet, drained it to the dregs, and askedmodestly: "Will you listen to a few lines of mine, kind sir?"

"Say them, say them!" cried the artist, filling his glass again, whilethe lansquenet, approaching the table, fixed his eyes steadily on thebeaker, and in an embarrassed manner, repeated:

 "On Christmas-day, when Jesus Christ, To save us sinners came, A poor, sore-wounded soldier dared To call upon his name. 'Oh! hear, ' he said, 'my earnest prayer, For the kind, generous man, Who gave the wounded soldier aid, And bore him through the land. So, in Thy shining chariot, I pray, dear Jesus mine, Thou'lt bear him through a happy life To Paradise divine. '"

"Capital, capital!" cried the artist, pledging the lansquenet andinsisting that he should sit down between him and the jester. 

Pellicanus now gazed thoughtfully into vacancy, for what the wounded mancould do, he too might surely accomplish. It was not only ambition, andthe habit of answering every good saying he heard with a better one, butkindly feeling, that urged him to honor the generous benefactor with aspeech. 

After a few minutes, which Moor spent in talking with the soldier, Pellicanus raised his glass, coughed again, and said, first calmly, thenin an agitated voice, whose sharp tones grew more and more subdued:

 "A rogue a fool must be, 't is true, Rog'ry sans folly will not do; Where folly joins with roguery, There's little harm, it seems to me. The pope, the king, the youthful squire, Each one the fool's cap doth attire; He who the bauble will not wear, The worst of fools doth soon appear. Thee may the motley still adorn, When, an old man, the laurel crown Thy head doth deck, while gifts less vain, Thine age to bless will still remain. When fair grandchildren thee delight, Mayst then recall this Christmas night. When added years bring whitening hair, The draught of wisdom then wilt share, But it will lack the flavor due, Without a drop of folly too. And if the drop is not at hand, Remember poor old Pellican, Who, half a rogue and half a fool, Yet has a faithful heart and whole. "

"Thanks, thanks!" cried the artist, shaking the jester's hand. "Sucha Christmas ought to be lauded! Wisdom, art, and courage at one table!Haven't I fared like the man, who picked up stones by the way side, andto-they were changed to pure gold in his knapsack. "

"The stone was crumbling, " replied the jester; "but as for the gold, itwill stand the test with me, if you seek it in the heart, and not in thepocket. Holy Blasius! Would that my grave might lack filling, as long asmy little strong-box here; I'd willingly allow it. "

"And so would I!" laughed the soldier:

"Then travelling will be easy for you, " said the artist. "There was atime, when my pouch was no fuller than yours. I know by the experienceof those days how a poor man feels, and never wish to forget it. I stillowe you my after-dinner speech, but you must let me off, for I can'tspeak your language fluently. In brief, I wish you the recovery ofyour health, Pellican, and you a joyous life of happiness and honor, myworthy comrade. What is your name?"

"Hans Eitelfritz von der Lucke, from Colln on the Spree, " replied thesoldier. "And, no offence, Herr Moor, God will care for the monks, butthere were three poor invalid fellows in your cart. One goblet more tothe pretty sick boy in there. "

CHAPTER XII. 

After dinner the artist went with his old servant, who had attended tothe horses and then enjoyed a delicious Christmas roast, to Count vonHochburg, to obtain an escort for the next day. 

Pellicanus had undertaken to watch Ulrich, who was still sleepingquietly. 

The jester would gladly have gone to bed himself, for he felt cold andtired, but, though the room could not be heated, he remained faithfullyat his post for hours. With benumbed hands and feet, he watched by thelight of the night-lamp every breath the boy drew, often gazing at himas anxiously and sympathizingly, as if he were his own child. 

When Ulrich at last awoke, he timidly asked when he was, and when thejester had soothed him, begged for a bit of bread, he was so hungry. 

How famished he felt, the contents of the dish that were speedily placedbefore him, soon discovered Pellicanus wanted to feed him like a baby, but the boy took the spoon out of his hand, and the former smilinglywatched the sturdy eater, without disturbing, him, until he wasperfectly satisfied; then he began to perplex the lad with questions, that seemed to him neither very intelligible, nor calculated to inspireconfidence. 

"Well, my little bird!" the jester began, joyously anticipating aconfirmation of the clever inferences he had drawn, "I suppose it wasa long flight to the churchyard, where we found you. On the grave is abetter place than in it, and a bed at Emmendingen, with plenty of gritsand veal, is preferable to being in the snow on the highway, with agrumbling stomach Speak freely, my lad! Where does your nest of robbershang?"

"Nest of robbers?" repeated Ulrich in amazement. 

"Well, castle or the like, for aught I care, " continued Pellicanusinquiringly. "Everybody is at home somewhere, except Mr. Nobody; but asyou are somebody, Nobody cannot possibly be your father. Tell me aboutthe old fellow!"

"My father is dead, " replied the boy, and as the events of the precedingday rushed back upon his memory, he drew the coverlet over his face andwept. 

"Poor fellow!" murmured the jester, hastily drawing his sleeve acrosshis eyes, and leaving the lad in peace, till he showed his face again. Then he continued: "But I suppose you have a mother at home?"

Ulrich shook his head mournfully, and Pellicanus, to conceal his ownemotion, looked at him with a comical grimace, and then said verykindly, though not without a feeling of satisfaction at his ownpenetration:

"So you are an orphan! Yes, yes! So long as the mother's wings cover it, the young bird doesn't fly so thoughtlessly out of the warm nest intothe wide world. I suppose the Latin school grew too narrow for the youngnobleman?"

Ulrich raised himself, exclaiming in an eager, defiant tone:

"I won't go back to the monastery; that I will not. "

"So that's the way the hare jumps!" cried the fool laughing. "You'vebeen a bad Latin scholar, and the timber in the forest is dearer to you, than the wood in the school-room benches. To be sure, they send out nogreen shoots. Dear Lord, how his face is burning!" So saying, Pellicanuslaid his hand on the boy's forehead and when he felt that it was hot, deemed it better to stop his examination for the day, and only asked hispatient his name. 

"Ulrich, " was the reply. 

"And what else?"

"Let me alone!" pleaded the boy, drawing the coverlet over his headagain. 

The jester obeyed his wish, and opened the door leading into thetap-room, for some one had knocked. The artist's servant entered, tofetch his master's portmanteau. Old Count von Hochburg had invited Moorto be his guest, and the painter intended to spend the night at thecastle. Pellicanus was to take care of the boy, and if necessary sendfor the surgeon again. An hour after, the sick jester lay shivering inhis bed, coughing before sleeping and between naps. Ulrich too couldobtain no slumber. 

At first he wept softly, for he now clearly realized, for the firsttime, that he had lost his father and should never see Ruth, the doctor, nor the doctor's dumb wife Elizabeth again. Then he wondered how he hadcome to Einmendingen, what sort of a place it was, and who the queerlittle man could be, who had taken him for a young noble--the quaintlittle man with the cough, and a big head, whose eyes sparkledso through his tears. The jester's mistake made him laugh, and heremembered that Ruth had once advised him to command the "word, " totransform him into a count. 

Suppose he should say to-morrow, that his father had been a knight?

But the wicked thought only glided through his mind; even before he hadreflected upon it, he felt ashamed of himself, for he was no liar. 

Deny his father! That was very wrong, and when he stretched himselfout to sleep, the image of the valiant smith stood with tangibledistinctness before his soul. Gravely and sternly he floated uponclouds, and looked exactly like the pictures Ulrich had seen of God theFather, only he wore the smith's cap on his grey hair. Even in Paradise, the glorified spirit had not relinquished it. 

Ulrich raised his hands as if praying, but hastily let them fall again, for there was a great stir outside of the inn. The tramp of steeds, the loud voices of men, the sound of drums and fifes were audible, thenthere was rattling, marching and shouting in the court-yard. 

"A room for the clerk of the muster-roll and paymaster!" cried a voice. 

"Gently, gently, children!" said the deep tones of the provost, who wasthe leader, counsellor and friend of the Lansquenets. "A devout servantmust not bluster at the holy Christmas-tide; he's permitted to drink aglass, Heaven be praised. Your house is to be greatly honored, Landlord!The recruiting for our most gracious commander, Count von Oberstein, is--to be done here. Do you hear, man! Everything to be paid for incash, and not a chicken will be lost; but the wine must be good! Doyou understand? So this evening broach a cask of your best. Pardon me, children--the very best, I meant to say. "

Ulrich now heard the door of the tap-room open, and fancied he couldsee the Lansquenets in gay costumes, each one different from the other, crowd into the apartment. 

The jester coughed loudly, scolding and muttering to himself; butUlrich listened with sparkling eyes to the sounds that came through theill-fitting door, by which he could hear what was passing in the nextroom. 

With the clerk of the muster-rolls, the paymaster and provost hadappeared the drummers and fifers, who the day after to-morrow were tosound the license for recruiting, and besides these, twelve Lansquenets, who were evidently no novices. 

Many an exclamation of surprise and pleasure was heard directly aftertheir entrance into the tap-room, and amid the confusion of voices, thename of Hans Eitelfritz fell more than once upon Ulrich's ear. 

The provost's voice sounded unusually cordial, as he greeted the bravefellow with the wounded hand--an honor of great value to the latter, forhe had served five years in the same company with the provost, "FatherKanold, " who read the very depths of his soldiers' hearts, and knew themall as if they were his own sons. 

Ulrich could not understand much amid the medley of voices in theadjoining room, but when Hans Eitelfritz, from Colln on the Spree, askedto be the first one put down on the muster-roll, he distinctly heard theprovost oppose the clerk's scruples, saying warmly "write, write; I'drather have him with one hand, than ten peevish fellows with two. He hasfun and life in him. Advance him some money too, he probably lacks manya piece of armor. "

Meantime the wine-cask must have been opened, for the clink of glasses, and soon after loud singing was audible. 

Just as the second song began, the boy fell asleep, but woke again twohours after, roused by the stillness that had suddenly succeeded theuproar. 

Hans Eitelfritz had declared himself ready to give a new song in hisbest vein, and the provost commanded silence. 

The singing now began; during its continuance Ulrich raised himselfhigher and higher in bed, not a word escaped him, either of the songitself, or the chorus, which was repeated by the whole party, withexuberant gayety, amid the loud clinking of goblets. Never before hadthe lad heard such bold, joyous voices; even at the second verse hisheart bounded and it seemed as if he must join in the tune, which he hadquickly caught. The song ran as follows:

 Who, who will venture to hold me back? Drums beat, fifes are playing a merry tune! Down hammer, down pen, what more need I, alack I go to seek fortune, good fortune!

 Oh father, mother, dear sister mine, Blue-eyed maid at the bridge-house, my fair one. Weep not, ye must not at parting repine, I go to seek fortune, good fortune!

 The cannon roar loud, the sword flashes bright, Who'll dare meet the stroke of my falchion? Close-ranked, horse and foot in battle unite, In war, war, dwells fortune, good fortune!

 The city is taken, the booty mine; With red gold, I'll deck--I know whom; Pair maids' cheeks burn red, red too glows the wine, Fortune, Paradise of good fortune!

 Deep, scarlet wounds, brave breasts adorn, Impoverished, crippled age I shun A death of honor, 'mid glory won, This too is good fortune, good fortune!

 A soldier-lad composed this ditty Hans Eitelfritz he, fair Colln's son, His kindred dwell in the goodly city, But he himself in fortune, good fortune!

"He himself in fortune, good fortune, " sang Ulrich also, and while, amidloud shouts of joy, the glasses again clinked against each other, herepeated the glad "fortune, good fortune. " Suddenly, it flashed upon himlike a revelation, "Fortune, " that might be the word!

Such exultant joy, such lark-like trilling, such inspiring promisesof happiness had never echoed in any word, as they now did from the"fortune, " the young lansquenet so gaily and exultantly uttered. 

"Fortune, Fortune!" he exclaimed aloud, and the jester, who was lyingsleepless in his bed and could not help smiling at the lad's singing, raised himself, saying:

"Do you like the word? Whoever understands how to seize it when it flitsby, will always float on top of everything, like fat on the soup. Rodsare cut from birches, willows, and knotted hazel-sticks-ho! ho! you knowthat, already;--but, for him who has good fortune, larded cakes, rollsand sausages grow. One bold turn of Fortune's wheel will bring him, who has stood at the bottom, up to the top with the speed of lightning. Brother Queer-fellow says: 'Up and down, like an avalanche. ' But nowturn over and go to sleep. To-morrow will also be a Christmas-day, whichwill perhaps bring you Fortune as a Christmas gift. "

It seemed as if Ulrich had not called upon Fortune in vain, for as soonas he closed his eyes, a pleasant dream bore him with gentle hands tothe forge on the market-place, and his mother stood beside the lightedChristmas-tree, pointing to the new sky-blue suit she had made him, andthe apples, nuts, hobby-horse, and jumping jack, with a head as roundas a ball, huge ears, and tiny flat legs. He felt far too old for suchchildish toys, and yet took a certain pleasure in them. Then the visionchanged, and he again saw his mother; but this time she was walkingamong the angels in Paradise. A royal crown adorned her golden hair, andshe told him she was permitted to wear it there, because she had been soreviled, and endured so much disgrace on earth. 

When the artist returned from Count von Hochburg's the next morning, he was not a little surprised to see Ulrich standing before therecruiting-table bright and well. 

The lad's cheeks were glowing with shame and anger, for the clerk of themuster-rolls and paymaster had laughed in his face, when he expressedhis desire to become a Lansquenet. 

The artist soon learned what was going on, and bade his protegeaccompany him out of doors. Kindly, and without either mockery orreproof, he represented to him that he was still far too young formilitary service, and after Ulrich had confirmed everything thepainter had already heard from the jester, Moor asked who had given himinstruction in drawing. 

"My father, and afterwards Father Lukas in the monastery, " replied theboy. "But don't question me as the little man did last night. "

"No, no, " said his protector. "But there are one or two more things Iwish to know. Was your father an artist?"

"No, " murmured the lad, blushing and hesitating. But when he met thestranger's clear gaze, he quickly regained his composure, and said:

"He only knew how to draw, because he understood how to forge beautiful, artistic things. "

"And in what city did you live?"

"In no city. Outside in the woods. "

"Oho!" said the artist, smiling significantly, for he knew that manyknights practised a trade. "Answer only two questions more; then youshall be left in peace until you voluntarily open your heart to me. Whatis your name?"

"Ulrich. "

"I know that; but your father's?"

"Adam. "

"And what else?"

Ulrich gazed silently at the ground, for the smith had borne no othername. 

"Well then, " said Moor, "we will call you Ulrich for the present; thatwill suffice. But have you no relatives? Is no one waiting for you athome?"

"We have led such a solitary life--no one. "

Moor looked fixedly into the boy's face, then nodded, and with awell-satisfied expression, laid his hand on Ulrich's curls, and said:

"Look at me. I am an artist, and if you have any love for my profession, I will teach you. "

"Oh!" cried the boy, clasping his hands in glad surprise. 

"Well then, " Moor continued, "you can't learn much on the way, but wecan work hard in Madrid. We are going now to King Philip of Spain. "

"Spain, Portugal!" murmured Ulrich with sparkling eyes; all he had heardin the doctor's house about these countries returned to his mind. 

"Fortune, good fortune!" cried an exultant voice in his heart. This wasthe "word, " it must be, it was already exerting its spell, and the spellwas to prove its inherent power in the near future. 

That very day the party were to go to Count von Rappoltstein in thevillage of Rappolts, and this time Ulrich was not to plod along onfoot, or he in a close baggage-wagon; no, he was to be allowed to ridea spirited horse. The escort would not consist of hired servants, but ofpicked men, and the count was going to join the train in person at thehill crowned by the castle, for Moor had promised to paint a portrait ofthe nobleman's daughter, who had married Count von Rappoltstein. It wasto be a costly Christmas gift, which the old gentleman intended to makehimself and his faithful wife. 

The wagon was also made ready for the journey; but no one rode inside;the jester, closely muffled in wraps, had taken his seat beside thedriver, and the monks were obliged to go on by way of Freiburg, andtherefore could use the vehicle no longer. 

They scolded and complained about it, as if they had been greatlywronged, and when Sutor refused to shake hands with the artist, Stubenrauch angrily turned his back upon the kind-hearted man. 

The offended pair sullenly retired, but the Christmas sun shone nonethe less brightly from the clear sky, the party of travellers had a gay, spick and span, holiday aspect, and the world into which they now faredstoutly forth, was so wide and beautiful, that Ulrich forgot his grief, and joyously waved his new cap in answer to the Lansquenet's farewellgesture. 

It was a merry ride, for on the way they met numerous travellers, whowere going through the hamlet of Rappolts to the "three castles on themountain" and saluted the old nobleman with lively songs. The Counts vonRappoltstein were the "piper-kings, " the patrons of the brotherhood ofmusicians and singers on the Upper Rhine. Usually these joyous birds metat the castle of their "king" on the 8th of September, to pay him theirlittle tax and be generously entertained in return; but this year, onaccount of the plague in the autumn, the festival had been deferreduntil the third day after Christmas, but Ulrich believed 'Fortune' hadarranged it so for him. 

There was plenty of singing, and the violins and rebecs, flutes, andreed-pipes were never silent. One serenade followed another, and even atthe table a new song rang out at each new course. 

The fiery wine, game and sweet cakes at the castle board undoubtedlypleased the palate of the artisan's son, but he enjoyed feasting hisears still more. He felt as if he were in Heaven, and thought less andless of the grief he had endured. 

Day by day Fortune shook her horn of plenty, and flung new gifts downupon him. 

He had told the stable-keepers of his power over refractory horses, andafter proving what he could do, was permitted to tame wild stallions andride them about the castle-yard, before the eyes of the old and youngcount and the beautiful young lady. This brought him praise and giftsof new clothes. Many a delicate hand stroked his curls, and it alwaysseemed to him as if his mighty spell could bestow nothing better. 

One day Moor took him aside, and told him that he had commenced aportrait of young Count Rappolstein too. The lad was obliged to bestill, having broken his foot in a fall from his horse, and as Ulrichwas of the same size and age, the artist wished him to put on the youngcount's clothes and serve as a model. 

The smith's son now received the best clothes belonging to hisaristocratic companion in age. The suit was entirely black, but eachgarment of a different material, the stockings silk, the breeches satin, the doublet soft Flanders velvet. Golden-yellow puffs and slashes stoodforth in beautiful relief against the darker stuff. Even the knots ofribbon on the breeches and shoes were as yellow as a blackbird's beak. Delicate lace trimmed the neck and fell on the hands, and a clasp ofreal gems confined the black and yellow plumes in the velvet hat. 

All this finery was wonderfully becoming to the smith's son, and he musthave been blind, if he had not noticed how old and young nudged eachother at sight of him. The spirit of vanity in his soul laughed indelight, and the lad soon knew the way to the large Venetian mirror, which was carefully kept in the hall of state. This wonderful glassshowed Ulrich for the first time his whole figure and the image whichlooked back at him from the crystal, flattered and pleased him. 

But, more than aught else, he enjoyed watching the artist's hand and eyeduring the sittings. Poor Father Lukas in the monastery must hide hishead before this master. He seemed to actually grow while engaged in hiswork, his shoulders, which he usually liked to carry stooping forward, straightened, the broad, manly breast arched higher, and the kindly eyesgrew stern, nay sometimes wore a terrible expression. 

Although little was said during the sittings, they were always too shortfor the boy. He did not stir, for it always seemed to him as if anymovement would destroy the sacred act he witnessed, and when, in thepauses, he looked at the canvas and saw how swiftly and steadily thework progressed, he felt as if before his own eyes, he was being bornagain to a nobler existence. In the wassail-hall hung the portrait ofa young Prince of Navarre, whose life had been saved in the chase bya Rappoltstein. Ulrich, attired in the count's clothes, looked exactlylike him. The jester had been the first to perceive this strangecircumstance. Every one, even Moor, agreed with him, and so it happenedthat Pellicanus henceforth called his young friend the Navarrete. Thename pleased the boy. Everything here pleased him, and he was full ofhappiness; only often at night he could not help grieving because, whilehis father was dead, he enjoyed such an overflowing abundance of goodthings, and because he had lost his mother, Ruth, and all who had lovedhim. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Ulrich was obliged to share the jester's sleeping-room, and asPellicanus shrank from getting out of bed, while suffering fromnight-sweats, and often needed something, he roused Ulrich from hissleep, and the latter was always ready to assist him. This happened morefrequently as they continued their journey, and the poor little man'sillness increased. 

The count had furnished Ulrich with a spirited young horse, thatshortened the road for him by its tricks and capers. But the jester, whobecame more and more attached to the boy, also did his utmost to keepthe feeling of happiness alive in his heart. On warm days he nestled inthe rack before the tilt with the driver, and when Ulrich rode besidehim, opened his eyes to everything that passed before him. 

The jester had a great deal to tell about the country and people, andhe embellished the smallest trifle with tales invented by himself, ordevised by others. 

While passing a grove of birches, he asked the lad if he knew why thetrunks of these trees were white, and then explained the cause, asfollows:

"When Orpheus played so exquisitely on his lute, all the trees rushedforward to dance. The birches wanted to come too, but being vain, stopped to put on white dresses, to outdo the others. When they finallyappeared on the dancing-ground, the singer had already gone--and now, summer and winter, year in and year out, they keep their white dresseson, to be prepared, when Orpheus returns and the lute sounds again. "

A cross-bill was perched on a bough in a pine-wood, and the jester saidthat this bird was a very peculiar species. It had originally been grey, and its bill was as straight as a sparrow's, but when the Saviour hungupon the cross, it pitied him, and with its little bill strove to drawthe nails from the wounded hands. In memory of this friendly act, theLord had marked its beak with the cross, and painted a dark-red spoton its breast, where the bird hall been sprinkled with His Son's blood. Other rewards were bestowed upon it, for no other bird could hatch abrood of young ones in winter, and it also had the power of lesseningthe fever of those, who cherished it. 

A flock of wild geese flew over the road and the hills, and Pellicanuscried: "Look there! They always fly in two straight lines, and form aletter of the alphabet. This time it is an A. Can you see it? When theLord was writing the laws on the tablets, a flock of wild geese flewacross Mt. Sinai, and in doing so, one effaced a letter with its wing. Since that time, they always fly in the shape of a letter, and theirwhole race, that is, all geese, are compelled to let those people whowish to write, pluck the feathers from their wings. "

Pellicanus was fond of talking to the boy in their bedroom. He alwayscalled him Navarrete, and the artist, when in a cheerful mood, followedhis example. 

Ulrich felt great reverence for Moor; the jester, on the contrary, wasonly a good comrade, in whom he speedily reposed entire confidence. 

Many an allusion and jesting word showed that Pellicanus still believedhim to be the son of a knight, and this at last became unendurable tothe lad. 

One evening, when they were both in bed, he summoned up his courage andtold him everything he knew about his past life. 

The jester listened attentively, without interrupting him, until Ulrichfinished his story with the words "And while I was gone, the bailiffsand dogs tracked them, but my father resisted, and they killed him andthe doctor. "

"Yes, yes, " murmured the jester. "It's a pity about Costa. Many aChristian might feel honored at resembling some Jews. It is only amisfortune to be born a Hebrew, and be deprived of eating ham. The Jewsare compelled to wear an offensive badge, but many a Christian child isborn with one. For instance, in Sparta they would have hurled me intothe gulf, on account of my big head, and deformed shoulder. Nowadays, people are less merciful, and let men like us drag the cripple's markthrough life. God sees the heart; but men cannot forget their ancestor, the clod of earth--the outside is always more to them than the inside. If my head had only been smaller, and some angel had smoothed myshoulder, I might perhaps now be a cardinal, wear purple, and instead ofriding under a grey tilt, drive in a golden coach, with well-fed blacksteeds. Your body was measured with a straight yard stick, but there'strouble in other places. So your father's name was Adam, and he reallybore no other?"

"No, certainly not. "

"That's too little by half. From this day we'll call you in earnestNavarrete: Ulrich Navarrete. That will be something complete. The nameis only a dress, but if half of it is taken from your body, you are lefthalf-bare and exposed to mockery. The garment must be becoming too, sowe adorn it as we choose. My father was called Kurschner, but at theLatin school Olearius and Faber and Luscinius sat beside me, so Iraised myself to the rank of a Roman citizen, and turned Kurschner intoPellicanus. . . . "

The jester coughed violently, and continued One thing more. To expectgratitude is folly, nine times out of ten none is reaped, and he who iswise thinks only of himself, and usually omits to seek thanks; but everyone ought to be grateful, for it is burdensome to have enemies, andthere is no one we learn to hate more easily, than the benefactor werepay with ingratitude. You ought and must tell the artist your history, for he has deserved your confidence. 

The jester's worldly-wise sayings, in which selfishness was alwayspraised as the highest virtue, often seemed very puzzling to the boy, yet many of them were impressed on his young soul. He followed the sickman's advice the very next morning, and he had no cause to regret it, for Moor treated him even more kindly than before. 

Pellicanus intended to part from the travellers at Avignon, to go toMarseilles, and from there by ship to Savona, but before he reached theold city of the popes, he grew so feeble, that Moor scarcely hoped tobring him alive to the goal of his journey. 

The little man's body seemed to continually grow smaller, and his headlarger, while his hollow, livid cheeks looked as if a rose-leaf adornedthe centre of each. 

He often told his travelling-companions about his former life. 

He had originally been destined for the ecclesiastical profession, butthough he surpassed all the other pupils in the school, he was deprivedof the hope of ever becoming a priest, for the Church wants no cripples. He was the child of poor people, and had been obliged to fight his waythrough his career as a student, with great difficulty. 

"How shabby the broad top of my cap often was!" he said. "I was so muchashamed of it. I am so small. Dear me, anybody could see my head, andcould not help noticing all the worn places in the velvet, if he casthis eyes down. How often have I sat beside the kitchen of a cook-shop, and seasoned dry bread with the smell of roast meat. Often too mypoodledog went out and stole a sausage for me from the butcher. "

At other times the little fellow had fared better; then, sitting in thetaverns, he had given free-play to his wit, and imposed no constraint onhis sharp tongue. 

Once he had been invited by a former boon-companion, to accompany him tohis ancestral castle, to cheer his sick father; and so it happenedthat he became a buffoon, wandered from one great lord to another, andfinally entered the elector's service. 

He liked to pretend that he despised the world and hated men, but thisassertion could not be taken literally, and was to be regarded in ageneral, rather than a special sense, for every beautiful thing in theworld kindled eager enthusiasm in his heart, and he remained kindlydisposed towards individuals to the end. 

When Moor once charged him with this, he said, smiling:

"What would you have? Whoever condemns, feels himself superior to theperson upon whom he sits in judgment, and how many fools, like me, fancythemselves great, when they stand on tiptoe, and find fault even withthe works of God! 'The world is evil, ' says the philosopher, and whoeverlistens to him, probably thinks carelessly: 'Hear, hear! He would havemade it better than our Father in heaven. ' Let me have my pleasure. I'monly a little man, but I deal in great things. To criticise a singleinsignificant human creature, seems to me scarcely worth while, but whenwe pronounce judgment on all humanity and the boundless universe, we canopen our mouths-wonderfully wide!"

Once his heart had been filled with love for a beautiful girl, butshe had scornfully rejected his suit and married another. When she waswidowed, and he found her in dire poverty, he helped her with a largeshare of his savings, and performed this kind service again, when thesecond worthless fellow she married had squandered her last penny. 

His life was rich in similar incidents. 

In his actions, the queer little man obeyed the dictates of his heart;in his speech, his head ruled his tongue, and this seemed to him theonly sensible course. To practise unselfish generosity he regarded as asubtle, exquisite pleasure, which he ventured to allow himself, becausehe desired nothing more; others, to whom he did not grudge a prosperouscareer, he must warn against such folly. 

There was a keen, bitter expression on his large, thin face, and whoeversaw him for the first time might easily have supposed him to be awicked, spiteful man. He knew this, and delighted in frightening themen and maid-servants at the taverns by hideous grimaces--he boasted ofbeing able to make ninety-five different faces--until the artist's oldvalet at last dreaded him like the "Evil One. "

He was particularly gay in Avignon, for he felt better than he had donefor a long time, and ordered a seat to be engaged for him in a vehiclegoing to Marseilles. 

The evening before their separation, he described with sparklingvivacity, the charms of the Ligurian coast, and spoke of the future asif he were sure of entire recovery and a long life. 

In the night Ulrich heard him groaning louder than usual, and startingup, raised him, as he was in the habit of doing when the poor little manwas tortured by difficulty of breathing. But this time Pellicanus didnot swear and scold, but remained perfectly still, and when his heavyhead fell like a pumpkin on the boy's breast, he was greatly terrifiedand ran to call the artist. 

Moor was soon standing at the head of the sick-bed, holding a light, sothat its rays could fall upon the face of the gasping man. The latteropened his eyes and made three grimaces in quick succession--verycomical ones, yet tinged with sadness. 

Pellicanus probably noticed the artist's troubled glance, for he triedto nod to him, but his head was too heavy and his strength too slight, so he only succeeded in moving it first to the right and then to theleft, but his eyes expressed everything he desired to say. In this wayseveral minutes elapsed, then Pellicanus smiled, and with a sorrowfulgaze, though a mischievous expression hovered around his mouth, scanned:

"'Mox erit' quiet and mute, 'gui modo' jester 'erat'. " Then he said assoftly as if every tone came, not from his chest, but merely from hislips--

"Is it agreed, Navarrete, Ulrich Navarrete? I've made the Latin easyfor you, eh? Your hand, boy. Yours, too, dear, dear master. . . Moor, Ethiopian--Blackskin. . . . "

The words died away in a low, rattling sound, and the dying man's eyesbecame glazed, but it was several hours before he drew his last breath. 

A priest gave him Extreme Unction, but consciousness did not return. 

After the holy man had left him, his lips moved incessantly, but no onecould understand what he said. Towards morning, the sun of Provencewas shining warmly and brightly into the room and on his bed, when hesuddenly threw his arm above his head, and half speaking, half singingto Hans Eitelfritz's melody, let fall from his lips the words: "Infortune, good fortune. " A few minutes after he was dead. 

Moor closed his eyes. Ulrich knelt weeping beside the bed, and kissedhis poor friend's cold hand. 

When he rose, the artist was gazing with silent reverence at thejester's features; Ulrich followed his eyes, and imagined he wasstanding in the presence of a miracle, for the harsh, bitter, troubledface had obtained a new expression, and was now the countenance of apeaceful, kindly man, who had fallen asleep with pleasant memories inhis heart. 

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 numberof French 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'snames. 

Moor looked up, and answered smiling: "These are only young artists, six sisters, 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 clearand bright 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 wasput on mules, and when the party of travellers started, it formed animposing caravan. 

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 onlynotice people who give themselves airs. "

At Fuenterrabia, the first Spanish city they reached, the artistreceived many honors, and a splendid troop of cavalry escorted himthence to Madrid. 

Moor came as a guest to King Philip's capital for the third time, andwas received there with all the tokens of respect usually paid only togreat noblemen. 

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 abee-hive; for aristocratic men and women, civil and ecclesiasticaldignitaries passed in and out, pages and lackeys brought flowers, baskets of fruits, and other gifts. Every one attached to the court knewin what high favor the artist was held by His Majesty, and thereforehastened to win his good-will by attentions and presents. Every hourthere was something new and astonishing to be seen, but the artisthimself most awakened 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 seemeda very different person. True, he still dressed in black, but insteadof cloth and silk, he wore velvet and satin, while two gold chainsglittered beneath his ruff. He treated the greatest nobles as if he weredoing them 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 approachof the 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 wasengaged in 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 fromCremona to the king's court with her father and five sisters, and sincethen the task 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 takea lofty view of art, and never permitted anything to leave her studiotill she 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 andnearer to his heart. 

The old Cavaliere praised the lucky accident, and was ready to showhimself obliging, when Moor offered to let him and his daughtersoccupy a house he had purchased, that it might be kept in a habitablecondition, and when the artist had induced the king to grant Sophonisbaa larger annual salary, the father instantly bought a second horse. 

The young girl, in return for so many benefits, was gratefully devotedto the artist, but she would have loved him even without them. Hissociety was her greatest pleasure. To be allowed to stay and paint withhim, 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 hopedto find her sisters with her in Madrid, but the old Cavaliere had takenthem away with him to Italy. His "trust in God" was rewarded, for hehad inherited a large fortune. What should he do longer in Madrid! Toentertain the stiff, grave Spaniards and move them to laughter, was afar less pleasing occupation than to make merry with gay companions andbe entertained himself at home. 

Sophonisba was provided for, and the beautiful, gay, famous maid ofhonor would have no lack of suitors. Against his daughter's wish, hehad given to the richest and most aristocratic among them, the Sicilianbaron Don Fabrizio di Moncada, the hope of gaining her hand. "Conquerthe fortress! 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, and there was no lack of these in the Alcazar, for here rose a high, three-story wing, to which when wearied by the intrigues of statecraftand the restraints of court etiquette, King Philip gladly retired, yielding himself to the only genial impulse of his gloomy soul, andenjoyed the noble 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 didnot deem 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 frequentlyrang the 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 tostroll through the streets and watch the long, brilliant processions, or timidly shrink back when closely-muffled men, their figures whollyinvisible except the eyes and feet, bore a corpse along, or glided onmysterious missions through the streets. The bull-fights might havebewitched him, but he loved horses, and it grieved him to see the nobleanimal, wounded and 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, dailyguarded or 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 Ulrichin the 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 thelad--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, livelyartist clung without envy, and with ardent reverence, to Moor, whose fellow-pupil he had been in Florence and Venice. During theNetherlander's first visit to Madrid, he had not disdained to seekcounsel and instruction from his senior, and even now frequently visitedhis studio, bringing with him his children Sanchez and Isabella aspupils, and watched the Master closely while he painted. 

At first Ulrich was not specially pleased with his new companions, forin the strangely visionary life he led, he had depended solely uponhimself and "Fortune, " and the figures living in his imagination werethe most enjoyable 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 notfail to be by turns pretty and repellent. She always had beautiful eyes;all her other features were unformed, and might grow charming orexactly the reverse. When her work engrossed her attention, she bit herprotruded tongue, and her raven-black hair, usually remarkably smooth, often became so oddly dishevelled, that she looked like a kobold; when, on the other hand, she talked pleasantly or jested, no one could helpbeing 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, heknew 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 accomplishedwithout any difficulty, Ulrich consented and went daily at twilight tothe Magister. 

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, for the latter was an enthusiastic admirer of his works. He ranked theNetherlander above Titian and the other great Italian artists, calledhim the worthy friend of gods and kings, and encouraged his pupil toimitate him. 

"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 themidst of a conversation about other things: "Has the king honored youagain?" or "You happy people, it is reported that the king has shown youhis face again. "

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

Weeks and months elapsed. 

Towards the close of his first year's residence in Madrid, Ulrichspoke Spanish with tolerable fluency, and could easily understand hisfellow-pupils; nay, he 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 grandeesalso went in and out of the studio, and among them frequently appeared, indeed usually when Sophonisba was present, her faithful admirer DonFabrizio di Moncada. 

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

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 themso? 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 tobe something 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 handhe could 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 withthe king 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 morningtill night. This pursuit brought in money, which was put to an excellentuse by the old man, who offered sacrifices to his own comfort at thecook-shop, and enjoyed fish fried in oil with his Zamora wine. Thebetter her father's appetite was, the more industriously the daughterwas obliged to embroider. Only on great festivals, or when an'Auto-da-fe' was proclaimed, was Carmen permitted to leave the palacewith her old aunt; yet she had already found suitors. Nineteen-year-oldSanchez did not indeed care for her hand, but merely for her love, andwhen it began to grow dusk, he stationed himself on the balcony which hehad discovered, made signs to her, and flung flowers or bonbons on hertable. 

"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 magnificenthair--did you ever see more beautiful tresses? Take notice! She'll soonmelt; 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, sohe rejected 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 if making a bow. Finally Ulrich draped about him a black and yellowscarf, such as he had often seen the young Austrian archduke wear, andbesides the pierced heart, placed a rose in the tiny, ill-drawn hand. 

He could not help laughing at his "masterpiece" and hurried out onthe balcony with the wet painting, to show it to Carmen. She laughedheartily too, answered his salutations with tender greetings, thenlaid aside her embroidery and went back into the room, but only toimmediately reappear at the window again, holding up a prayer-book andextending towards him the eight fingers of her industrious little hands. 

He motioned that he understood her, and at eight o'clock the nextmorning was kneeling by her side at mass, where he took advantage of afavorable opportunity 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" tohis aid; 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, smilingly asked: "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, he bent over the artist'shand to kiss it, but the latter withdrew it, gazed steadily into hiseyes with paternal affection, and said: "We will try, my boy, but wemust not give up drawing, for that is the father of our art. Drawingkeeps us within the bounds assigned to what is true and beautiful. Themorning you must spend as before; after dinner you shall be rewarded byusing colors. " This plan was followed, and the pupil's first love affairbore still another fruit--it gave a different form to his relationswith Sanchez. The feeling that he had stood in his way and abused hisconfidence sorely disturbed Ulrich, so he did everything in his power toplease 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 themto Sophonisba 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 ofgood fortune. 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 hiseyes, 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 toleave Madrid. 

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 Majestyhas visited 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 incapacityof the 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, butat the 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 thethrone and safeguard of society: the Church. To crush and vanquishwas his profession, hatred his reward on earth. Then, after a moment'ssilence, 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 itwith excellent 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, in short 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 meansof trivial, 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, andhands 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, tofind new 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 hewas gay 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 mayserve for 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;but Moor 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 butstately figure to its full height. His unconstrained bearing wasinstantly transformed 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 tohis indignation in words, he said quickly, as if the offence he hadcommitted was not worth mentioning:

"Queer things are done among comrades in art. The painter's war isover! 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 inone thing: 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 andpersonal attributes of the subject--his soul and person, mind andcharacter-feelings and nature. King Philip, pondering over complicatedpolitical combinations, would be a fascinating historical painting, butno likeness. . . . "

"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, not for me, the overworked, bungling amateur, to correct the work oftalented pupils. "

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 blow hadbeen scarcely perceptible, but Majesty will not endure a touch. 

Philip did not wish to quarrel with the artist now, but he wouldremember the incident, and woe betide him, if in some gloomy hour thesovereign should recall the insult offered him here. Even the lightestblow from the paw of this slinking tiger could inflict deep wounds--evendeath. 

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, and the unprecedented act had occurred without witnesses, somewhatsoothed him. He could not know that a third person, Ulrich, had beheldthe reckless, 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 ballgiven by 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 ofwax-candles in silver and bronze candelabra; costly Gobelin tapestry andpurple Flanders hangings covered the walls, and the bright hues ofthe paintings were reflected from the polished floors, flooded withbrilliant light. 

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, and the handsome, youthful figures of Alexander of Parma and of DonJuan, the half-brother of King Philip. 

Don Carlos, the deformed heir to the throne, was annoying with hiscoarse jests some ladies of the court, who were holding their fansbefore their faces, yet did not venture to make the sovereign's son feeltheir displeasure. 

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 roseagain, but even the oldest duchesses were not allowed the privilege ofsitting in 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 wishedto see escaped his notice, and when he perceived Moor, he noddedgraciously and smiled pleasantly upon him for a moment, but did not, asusual, 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 theformer had 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 liketwo brothers! 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 upon itNavarrete. I'll keep silence, but you! Don't gossip about that! Not onany account! The jesting blow might do the master harm. Excuse me forto-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 seemedabout parting to utter some wise or witty word--he had not painted them, never, never could he have accomplished such a masterpiece. He becamevery anxious. Had "Fortune, " which usually left him in the lurch whencreating, aided him on this occasion? Last evening, before he wentto bed, 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 whatwas passing in the awakening artist-soul, for a similar incident hadhappened to 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 thenight. . . . "

"That often happens, " interrupted the master. "If a man devoteshimself earnestly 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, shakinghis head, he murmured in an undertone: "Yes, but those shadows atthe corners of the mouth--do you see?--that light on the brow, andthere--just look at 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 Collnon the Spree?"

Every trace of anxiety instantly vanished from the face of the artist, who certainly had not recognized in this braggart the modest companionof those 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 forthe past nine months, and take a different view of life from that of apoor devil of a man-at-arms who goes fighting through the country. Youknow the 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 Genoato Barcelona, and thence through this barren, stony country here toMadrid. "

"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 youremember me?"

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

"Have you recollected that?" asked the lansquenet. "Foolish stuff!Believe it or not, I composed the merry little thing when in greatsorrow and poverty, just to warm my heart. Now I'm prosperous, and canrarely succeed 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 athim with tears in her eyes, saying so affectionately that the innermostdepths of Ulrich's heart were stirred: "How glad I am! I couldnever accomplish such a work. You will become a great artist, avery distinguished 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, heseized Isabella'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 inthe service 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, and had become the greatest pleasure, indeed, a necessity of life tohim. 

He had commenced his career in Cologne as a Dominican friar, andremained in 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 showedthe artist was an abomination, not only to the heads of the HolyInquisition, but also to the ambassadors and court dignitaries, yetMoor's quiet, stainless life afforded no handle for attack. Soon, however, unexpected aid 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 thingsit contained 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, hehad deserted them in a miserable tavern by the way-side, among rough, godless lansquenets, as the mother of Moses abandoned her babe. And sucha man as this, they had heard with amazement at Cologne, was permittedto boast of the favor of His Most Catholic Majesty, King Philip. Kochelmust take heed, that this leprous soul did not infect the whole flock, like a mangy sheep, 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, thatthe heretical 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 Netherlander wasa 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 thesun was already low in the heavens, and neither she herself nor anymessage had arrived. 

He tried to paint, and finding the attempt useless, gazed into thegarden and at the distant chain of the Guadarrama mountains; but to-dayhe remained unmoved by the delicate violet-blue mist that floated aroundthe bare, 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 anddeath. 

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 faithfulwooing by accepting his suit. 

Moor was rejoiced--yes, really glad at heart, and expressed hispleasure; nevertheless he felt a sharp pang, and when the baron, in hissimple, aristocratic manner, thanked him for the faithful friendshiphe had always shown Sophonisba and her sisters, and then related howgraciously the queen had joined their hands, he only listened withpartial attention, 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 tohim now, 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 endurethe restraint she had hitherto imposed upon herself, and whisperedhurriedly, in broken accents:

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

Moor did as he was requested, and, with the baron, obeyed her requestto search 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 ofher face, shoulders and hands, she went into the middle of the room, beckoned the men to come close to her, raised her fan to her face, andwhispered:

"Don Fabrizio and I are now one. God hears me! You, Master, are in greatperil and surrounded by spies. Some one witnessed yesterday's incident, and it is now the talk of the town. Don Fabrizio has made inquiries. There is an accusation against you, and the Inquisition will act uponit. The informers call you a heretic, a sorcerer, who has bewitched theking. They will seize you to-morrow, or the day after. The king is in aterrible mood. The Nuncio openly asked him whether it was true, thathe had been offered an atrocious insult in your studio. Is everythingready? 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 succeedin saving you, a new and beautiful star will adorn the heaven of mymemory. "

"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 councilof war. Everything is arranged. In an hour my servants will come and askfor the portrait of my betrothed bride; instead of the picture, youwill put 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 inhis gay clothes--will stay with the carriage and accompany it along theroad towards Burgos, as far as it goes. A better decoy than he cannot beimagined, and besides he is nimble and an excellent horseman. Givehim your own steed, the white Andalusian. If the blood-hounds shouldovertake him. . . . "

Here Moor interrupted the baron, saying gravely and firmly: "My greyhead will be too dearly purchased at the cost of this young life. Changethis part of your plan, I entreat you. "

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

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

"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 toreopen the door, rushed into the studio, and called as loudly as shecould: "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, ordoes 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. Beat me, slay me, and I will bless you. "

As he uttered the last words, the young artist, raising his claspedhands imploringly, fell on his knees before his beloved teacher. Moorbent towards him, saying with grave kindness:

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

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

"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 toattend the 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-expensesand any 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 forhis master. So they went forward; at first rapidly, then at a paceeasy for the horses. He told the coachman that Moor had alighted atthe second station, and would ride with His Majesty to Avila, where hewished to find the carriage. 

During the whole way, Ulrich thought little of himself, and all themore of 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 Valenciaand thought: "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 goback over the road by which he had come; but the horse had scarcelybegun to gallop, when a shot was fired, that stretched it on the ground. The rider was dragged into the guard-house as a prisoner, and subjectedto a severe 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, whento keep him alive, he was fed with bread and water. Firmly bound in atwo-wheeled cart, drawn by mules, he was dragged over stock and stonesto Madrid. 

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. Hecursed himself, and when he thought of the "word" "fortune, fortune!" hegnashed 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 lookingdeath in 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, andstriven to win the master's praise, the approval of the living and hisbeloved 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 onthe canvas; 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 everythingelse seemed small, pitiful and insipid. With what other word could Godhave created the world, human beings, animals, and plants? The doctorhad often called every flower, every beetle, a work of art, and Ulrichnow understood his meaning, and could imagine how the Almighty, with thethirst for creation and plastic hand of the greatest of all artistshad formed the gigantic bodies of the stars, had given the sky itsglittering blue, had indented and rounded the mountains, had bestowedform and color on everything that runs, creeps, flies, buds andblossoms, and had fashioned man--created in His own image--in the mostmajestic form of all. 

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, for the assistance of Art in joyous creating. Rather, a thousand timesrather, would he beg his bread, and attain great things in Art, thanriot and revel in good-fortune. 

Colors, colors, canvas, a model like Sophonisba, and success in therealm of Art! It was for these things he longed, these things made himyearn with such passionate eagerness for deliverance, liberty. 

Months glided by, maturing Ulrich's mind as rapidly as if they hadbeen years; but his inclination to retire within himself deepened intointense reserve. 

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 hewas free. 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, forthere rose the blue peaks of the Guadarrama chain, which he knew well. There were the little trees at which the denizen of the Black Forest hadoften smiled, but which to-day looked large and stately. Now a toreador, whom he had seen more than once in the arena, strutted past. Thiswas 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 fewlarge silver coins, which he knew he had not possessed at the time ofhis capture. 

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, the released prisoner hurried away, bought himself a new cap, and thensought the Alcazar. 

Before the treasury, in the place of old Santo, Carmen's father, stooda tall, 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 tosee the inside of a guard-house--a place you are doubtless familiarwith--you had 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 herfan, and tripping over the pavement like a wag-tail, she came directlytowards the disputants. 

Ulrich recognized her instantly; it was Carmen, the pretty embroidererof the 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, andlooking at 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 freshoil-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 hisown children and Ulrich also, as if all were on the same footing. Iftoday. . . But Ulrich did not have much time for such reflections; a fewminutes after Pablo left, the door was torn open, and the whole Coellofamily rushed joyously to meet him; Isabella first. Sanchez followedclose behind her, then came the artist, next his stout, clumsy wife, whom Ulrich had rarely seen, because she usually spent the whole daylying on a couch with her lap-dog. Last of all appeared the duennaCatalina, 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 shookher head as if there was something strange in his appearance. Sanchezembraced him, whirling him round and round, Coello shook hands, murmuring many 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! Youcan'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, ourbeloved Moor arranged it. You won't go about the streets in this way anylonger. Look, Isabella; this sleeve is hanging by two strings, andthe elbow is peering out of the window. Such a dress is airy enough, certainly. Take him to the tailor's at once, Sanchez, Oliverio, or. . . But no, no; we'll all stay together to-day. Herrera is coming from theEscurial. You will endure the dress for the sake of the wearer, won'tyou, ladies? Besides, who is to choose the velvet and cut for this youngdandy? He always wore something unusual. I can still see the master'ssmile, provoked by some of the lad's new contrivances in puffs andslashes. It is pleasant to have you here, my boy! I ought to slay acalf, as the father did for the prodigal son; but we live in miniature. Instead of neat-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 peersbe found--or those of Moor, and the architect Herrera, who enteredsoon after. 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 promisedto become 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, movable wooden horse's heads, and plaster-models stood on the floor, thetables, and in the windows. Stuffs, garments, tapestries, weaponshung over the backs of the chairs, or lay on chests, tables and thestone-floor. Withered laurel-wreaths, tied with long ribbons, flutteredover the mantel-piece; one had fallen, dropped over the bald head ofJulius Caesar, 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 werenot pervaded by the depth and earnestness, the marvellous fidelity tonature, 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. Deucetake it! 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 sketchesto the ceiling and walls of the riding-school. I will help you perfectthe thing, and give it the finishing touch. "

This invitation aroused more perplexity than pleasure in Ulrich'smind, for it was not in accordance with Moor's opinions. Fear of hisfellow-men no longer restrained him, so he frankly said that he wouldrather sketch industriously from nature, and perhaps would do wellto seek Moor in Flanders. Besides, he was afraid that Coello greatlyoverrated his powers. 

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 allothers. Antonio has tormented you sufficiently with drawing lifelessthings. When you transfer these sketches, many times enlarged, toa broad surface, you will learn more than in years of copyingplaster-casts. A man must have talent, courage and industry; everythingelse comes of its own accord, and thank Heaven, you're a lucky fellow!Look at my horses--they are not so bad, yet I never sketched aliving one in my life till I was commissioned to paint His Majesty onhorseback. You shall have a better chance. Go to the stables and the oldriding-school to-morrow. First try noble animals, then visit the marketand shambles, and see how the knackers look. If you make good speed, youshall soon see the first ducats you yourself have earned. " The goldenreward possessed little temptation for Ulrich, but he allowed himself tobe persuaded by his senior, and drew and painted horses and mares withpleasure and success, working with Isabella and Coello's pupil, Felicede Liano, when they sketched and painted from living models. When thescaffolding was erected in the winter riding-school, he went there underthe court-artist's direction, to measure, arrange and finally transferthe painter'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 becamein his work. To create on a grand scale delighted him, and the fullyoccupied life, as well as the slight fatigue after his work wasdone, which was sweetened by the joy of labor accomplished, were allbeautiful, enjoyable things; yet Ulrich felt that this was not exactlythe right course, that a steeper, more toilsome path must lead to theheight he desired 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. It was certainly no light matter for her to be deprived of Ulrich'ssociety, yet she unselfishly admitted that her father, in the vastworks he had undertaken, could not be a teacher like Moor, and it wouldprobably be best for him to seek his old master in Flanders, as soon ashis task in the 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 handedhim a letter from the master, in which the latter cordially invited himto come 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 herto behold 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 fromthe dry wood of souls defrauded of love and hope. Life is a thornyrose-bush, and Art its flower. Here Mirth is melancholy--Joy issorrowful and Liberty is dead. Here Art withers and--like an exotic--isprevented perishing outright only by artificial culture. But there is aland, I know it well, for it is my home--where Art buds and blossoms andthrows its shade over all the highways. Favorite of Antonio, knight ofthe Word--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 workhe had undertaken in the riding-school, then he himself would smooth theway to Italy for him. To leave him, so heavily burdened, in the lurchnow, 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, and he began to seek diversion for his mind, especially at thefencing-school with Sanchez Coello. 

His eye was keen, his wrist pliant, and his arm was gaining more andmore of 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 tojoin the 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, and compelled many gentlemen, who offended him, to meet him in singlecombat. 

No one, not even Sanchez Coello, was permitted to know of thesenocturnal adventures; they were his chief pleasure, stirred his blood, and gave him the 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 themost precious 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 havethe beams, ladders and boards, which narrowed the space in thepicadero, --[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, and Coello received the commission to adorn a triumphal arch withhastily-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 youthfulfigure. Don Juan stopped directly opposite to him, and bared his head. The thick, fair hair brushed back behind his ears, hung in wonderfullysoft, waving locks down to his neck, and his features blended femininegrace with manly vigor. 

As, hat in hand, he swung himself from the saddle, unassisted, togreet the fair duchess of Medina Celi, there was such a charm in hismovements, that the young artist felt inclined to believe all the talesrelated of the successful love affairs of this favorite of fortune, whowas the son of 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 turningto Alexander Farnese, said: "What a superb animal! but alas, alas, hehas a devilish 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 ofthe ladies 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 steedsto be 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 ofhis burden, but the rider sat firm, leaned far over the steed's neck, stroked--his head again, pressed his flanks and, after the lapse of afew minutes, guided him merely by the pressure of his thighs first ata walk, then at a trot over the track. At last springing off, he pattedSatan, who pranced peacefully beside him, and led him by the bridle toDon 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, and continued:

"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 notan artist, I should like best to be a soldier; but I cannot give up myart. "

"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 greatlyoblige me. 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 makethe journey 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 ahouse on the Rialto, and now it was settled, he was going to Italy. 

Coello was obliged to submit, and his kind heart again showed itself;for he wrote letters of introduction for Ulrich to his old artistfriends in Venice, and induced the king to send the great Titian apresent--which the ambassador was to deliver. The court-artist obtainedfrom the latter a promise to present his pupil Navarrete to thegrey-Haired prince of artists. 

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

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

The studies he had finished in Madrid aroused his compassion; in Italyhe would first really begin to become an artist: there work must bringhim what 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 Iwill do it, ere it is too late. Don't interrupt me now, or I shall losecourage, 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 tormentyourself with studying, you will make no progress, you will neveragain accomplish a portrait like the one in the old days, like yourSophonisba. You will then be no great artist and you can, you mustbecome one. "

"I will, Belita, I will!"

"Well, well; but first be a pupil! If I were in your place, I would, for aught I care, go to Venice and look about me, but from there I wouldride to 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, once for all. This fault-finding, this warning vexes me. It spoilsmy pleasure, 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, andwhat a 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 howthe flush 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 saidshe had always loved him; he assured her in an agitated voice that hebelieved it, and that there was no better, sweeter, brighter creatureon earth 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 sodearly, and now that we belong to each other, I am no longer anxiousabout 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 becomea real 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 toyour 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, howmuch it was, for it was neither counted, nor entered in books. Graspingthe 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 willbe a 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 favoriteof Herrera, the first architect in Spain, who had already expressed hislove for the young girl, and now this vagabond pauper, this immatureboy, had come 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, ifin a year and a half he returned from Italy a skilful artist. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

The admiral's ship, which bore King Philip's ambassador to Venice, reached its destination safely, though it had encountered many severestorms on the voyage, during which Ulrich was the only passenger, whoamid the rolling and pitching of the vessel, remained as well as an oldsailor. 

But, on the other hand his peace of mind was greatly impaired, and anyone who had watched him leaning over the ship's bulwark, gazing into thesea, or pacing up and down with restless bearing and gloomy eyes, wouldscarcely have suspected that this reserved, irritable youth, who wasonly too often under the dominion of melancholy moods, had won onlya short time before a noble human heart, and was on the way to therealization of his boldest dreams, the fulfilment of his most ardentwishes. 

How differently he had hoped to enter "the Paradise of Art!"

Never had he been so free, so vigorous, so rich, as in the dawn of theday, at whose close he was to unite Isabella's life with his own--andnow--now!

He had expected to wander through Italy from place to place asuntrammelled, gay, and free as the birds in the air; he had desiredto see, admire, en joy, and after becoming familiar with all the greatartists, choose a new master among them. Sophonisba's home was to havebecome his, and it had never entered his mind to limit the period of hisenjoyment and study on the sacred soil. 

How differently his life must now be ordered! Until he went on board ofthe ship in Valencia, the thought of calling a girl so good, sensibleand loving as Isabella his own, rejoiced and inspired him, butduring the solitary hours a sea-voyage so lavishly bestows, a strangetransformation in his feelings occurred. 

The wider became the watery expanse between him and Spain, the fartherreceded Isabella's memory, the less alluring and delightful grew thethought of possessing her hand. 

He now told himself that, before the fatal hour, he had rejoiced atthe anticipation of escaping her pedantic criticism, and when he lookedforward to the future and saw himself, handsome Ulrich Navarrete, whosesuperior height filled the smaller Castilians with envy, walking throughthe streets with his tiny wife, and perceived the smiles of the peoplethey met, he was seized with fierce indignation against himself and hishard fate. 

He felt fettered like the galley-slaves, whose chains rattled andclanked, as they pulled at the oars in the ship's waist. At other timeshe could not help recalling her large, beautiful, love-beaming eyes, hersoft, red lips, and yearningly confess that it would have been sweet tohold her in his arms and kiss her, and, since he had forever lost hisRuth, he could find no more faithful, sensible, tender wife than she. 

But what should he, the student, the wandering disciple of Art, do witha bride, a wife? The best and fairest of her sex would now have seemedto him an impediment, a wearisome clog. The thought of being obliged toaccomplish some fixed task within a certain time, and then be subjectedto an examination, curbed his enjoyment, oppressed, angered him. 

Grey mists gathered more and more densely over the sunny land, for whichhe had longed with such passionate ardor, and it seemed as if in thatluckless hour, he had been faithless to the "word, "--had deprivedhimself of its assistance forever. 

He often felt tempted to send Coello his ducats and tell him he had beenhasty, and cherished no desire to wed his daughter; but perhaps thatwould break the heart of the poor, dear little thing, who loved him sotenderly! He would be no dishonorable ingrate, but bear the consequencesof his own recklessness. 

Perhaps some miracle would happen in Italy, Art's own domain. Perhapsthe sublime goddess would again take him to her heart, and exert on himalso the power Sophonisba had so fervently praised. 

The ambassador and his secretary, de Soto, thought Ulrich an unsocialdreamer; but nevertheless, after they reached Venice, the latter invitedhim to share his lodgings, for Don Juan had requested him to interesthimself in the young artist. 

What could be the matter with the handsome fellow? The secretary triedto question him, but Ulrich did not betray what troubled him, onlyalluding in general terms to a great anxiety that burdened his mind. 

"But the time is now coming when the poorest of the poor, the mostmiserable of all forsaken mortals, cast aside their griefs!" cried deSoto. "Day after to morrow the joyous Carnival season will begin! Holdup your head, young man! Cast your sorrows into the Grand Canal, anduntil Ash-Wednesday, imagine that heaven has fallen upon earth!"

Oh! blue sea, that washes the lagunes, oh! mast-thronged Lido, oh!palace of the Doges, that chains the eye, as well as the backwardgazing, mind, oh! dome of St. Mark, in thy incomparable garb of goldand paintings, oh! ye steeds and other divine works of bronze, ye noblepalaces, for which the still surface of the placid water serves as amirror, thou square of St. Mark, where, clad in velvet, silk and gold, the richest and freest of all races display their magnificence, withjust pride! Thou harbor, thou forest of masts, thou countless fleetof stately galleys, which bind one quarter of the globe to another, inspiring terror, compelling obedience, and gaining boundless treasuresby peaceful voyages and with shining blades. Oh! thou Rialto, where goldis stored, as wheat and rye are elsewhere;--ye proud nobles, ye fairdames with luxuriant tresses, whose raven hue pleases ye not, and whichye dye as bright golden as the glittering zechins ye squander with suchsmall, yet lavish hands! Oh! Venice, Queen of the sea, mother of riches, throne of power, hall of fame, temple of art, who could escape thyspell!

What wanton Spring is to the earth, thy carnival season is to thee! Ittransforms the magnificence of color of the lagune-city into a dazzlingradiance, the smiles to Olympic laughter, the love-whispers to exultantsongs, the noisy, busy life of the mighty commercial city into a madwhirlpool, which draws everything into its circle, and releases nothingit has once seized. 

De Soto urged and pushed the youth, who had already lost his mentalequipoise, into the midst of the gulf, ere he had found the rightcurrent. 

On the barges, amid the throngs in the streets, at banquets, inball-rooms, at the gaming-table, everywhere, the young, golden-haired, superbly-dressed artist, who was on intimate terms with the Spanishking's ambassador, attracted the attention of men, and the eyes, curiosity and admiration of the women; though people as yet knew notwhence he came. 

He chose the tallest and most stately of the slender dames of Veniceto lead in the dance, or through the throng of masks and citizensintoxicated with the mirth of the carnival. Whithersoever he led thefairest followed. 

He wished to enjoy the respite before execution. To forget--toforget--to indemnify himself for future seasons of sacrifice, dulness, self-conquest, torment. 

Poor little Isabella! Your lover sought to enjoy the sensation ofshowing himself to the crowd with the stateliest woman in the company onhis arm! And you, Ulrich, how did you feel when people exclaimed behindyou: "A splendid pair! Look at that couple!"

Amid this ecstasy, he needed no helping word, neither "fortune" nor"art;" without any magic spell he flew from pleasure to pleasure, through every changing scene, thinking only of the present and asking noquestions about the future. 

Like one possessed he plunged into passion's wild whirl. From theembrace of beautiful arms he rushed to the gaming-table, where theducats he flung down soon became a pile of gold; the zechins filled hispurse to overflowing. 

The quickly-won treasure melted like snow in the sun, and returned againlike stray doves to their open cote. 

The works of art were only enjoyed with drunken eyes--yet, once more thegracious word exerted its wondrous power on the misguided youth. 

On Shrove-Tuesday, the ambassador took Ulrich to the great Titian. 

He stood face to face with the mighty monarch of colors, listened togracious words from his lips, and saw the nonogenarian, whose tallfigure was scarcely bowed, receive the king's gifts. 

Never, never, to the close of his existence could he forget that face!

The features were as delicately and as clearly outlined, as if cut withan engraver's chisel from hard metal; but pallid, bloodless, untingedby the faintest trace of color. The long, silver-white beard of the tallvenerable painter flowed in thick waves over his breast, and the eyes, with which he scanned Ulrich, were those of a vigorous, keen-sightedman. His voice did not sound harsh, but sad and melancholy; deep sorrowshadowed his glance, and stamped itself upon the mouth of him, whosethin, aged hand still ensnared the senses easily and surely with gaysymphonies of color!

The youth answered the distinguished Master's questions with tremblinglips, and when Titian invited him to share his meal, and Ulrich, seatedat the lower end of the table in the brilliant banqueting-hall, was toldby his neighbors with what great men he was permitted to eat, he felt sotimid, small, and insignificant, that he scarcely ventured to touch thegoblets and delicious viands the servants offered. 

He looked and listened; distinguishing his old master's name, andhearing him praised without stint as a portrait-painter. He wasquestioned about him, and gave confused answers. 

Then the guests rose. 

The February sun was shining into the lofty window, where Titian seatedhimself to talk more gaily than before with Paolo Cagliari, Veronese, and other great artists and nobles. 

Again Ulrich heard Moor mentioned. Then the old man, from whom the youthhad not averted his eyes for an instant, beckoned, and Cagliari calledhim, saying that he, the gallant Antonio Moor's pupil, must now showwhat he could do; the Master, Titian, would give him a task. 

A shudder ran through his frame; cold drops of perspiration, extorted byfear, stood on his brow. 

The old man now invited him to accompany his nephew to the studio. Daylight would last an hour longer. He might paint a Jew; no usurer nordealer in clothes, but one of the noble race of prophets, disciples, apostles. 

Ulrich stood before the easel. 

For the first time after a long period he again called upon the "word, "and did so fervently, with all his heart. His beloved dead, who in thetumult of carnival mirth had vanished from his memory, again rose beforehis mind, among them the doctor, who gazed rebukingly at him with hisclear, thoughtful eyes. 

Like an inspiration a thought darted through the youth's brain. He couldand would paint Costa, his friend and teacher, Ruth's father. 

The portrait he had drawn when a boy appeared before his memory, featurefor feature. A red pencil lay close at hand. 

Sketching the outlines with a few hasty strokes, he seized the brush, and while hurriedly guiding it and mixing the colors, he saw in fancyCosta standing before him, asking him to paint his portrait. 

Ulrich had never forgotten the mild expression of the eyes, the smilehovering about the delicate lips, and now delineated them as well ashe could. The moments slipped by, and the portrait gained roundness andlife. The youth stepped back to see what it still needed, and once morecalled upon the "word" from the inmost depths of his heart; at the sameinstant the door opened, and leaning on a younger painter, Titian, withseveral other artists, entered the studio. 

He looked at the picture, then at Ulrich, and said with an approvingsmile: "See, see! Not too much of the Jew, and a perfect apostle!A Paul, or with longer hair and a little more youthful aspect, anadmirable St. John. Well done, well done! my son!"

Well done, well done! These words from Titian had ennobled his work;they echoed loudly in his soul, and the measure of his bliss threatenedto overflow, when no less a personage than the famous Paolo Veronese, invited him to come to his studio as a pupil on Saturday. 

Enraptured, animated by fresh hope, he threw himself into his gondola. 

Everyone had left the palace, where he lodged with de Soto. Who wouldremain at home on the evening of Shrove-Tuesday?

The lonely rooms grew too confined for him. 

Quiet days would begin early the next morning, and on Saturday a new, fruitful life in the service of the only true word, Art, divineArt, would commence for him. He would enjoy this one more evening ofpleasure, this night of joy; drain it to the dregs. He fancied he hadwon a right that day to taste every bliss earth could give. 

Torches, pitch-pans and lamps made the square of St. Mark's as bright asday, and the maskers crowded upon its smooth pavement as if it were thefloor of an immense ball-room. 

Intoxicating music, loud laughter, low, tender whispers, sweet odorsfrom the floating tresses of fair women bewildered Ulrich's senses, already confused by success and joy. He boldly accosted every one, and if he suspected that a fair face was concealed under a mask, drewnearer, touched the strings of a lute, that hung by a purple ribbonround his neck, and in the notes of a tender song besought love. 

Many a wave of the fan rewarded, many an angry glance from men's darkeyes rebuked the bold wooer. A magnificent woman of queenly height nowpassed, leaning on the arm of a richly-dressed cavalier. 

Was not that the fair Claudia, who a short time before had lost enormoussums at the gaming-table in the name of the rich Grimani, and who hadinvited Ulrich to visit her later, during Lent?

It was, he could not be mistaken, and now followed the pair like ashadow, growing bolder and bolder the more angrily the cavalier rebuffedhim with wrathful glances and harsh words; for the lady did not ceaseto signify that she recognized him and enjoyed his playing. But thenobleman was not disposed to endure this offensive sport. Pausing in themiddle of the square, he released his arm with a contemptuous gesture, saying: "The lute-player, or I, my fair one; you can decide----"

The Venetian laughed loudly, laid her hand on Ulrich's arm and said:"The rest of the Shrove-Tuesday night shall be yours, my merry singer. "

Ulrich joined in her gayety, and taking the lute from his neck, offeredit to the cavalier, with a defiant gesture, exclaiming:

"It's at your disposal, Mask; we have changed parts. But please hold itfirmer than you held your lady. " High play went on in the gaming hall;Claudia was lucky with the artist's gold. 

At midnight the banker laid down the cards. It was Ash-Wednesday, thehall must be cleared; the quiet Lenten season had begun. 

The players withdrew into the adjoining rooms, among them themuch-envied couple. 

Claudia threw herself upon a couch; Ulrich left her to procure agondola. 

As soon as he was gone, she was surrounded by a motley throng ofsuitors. 

How the beautiful woman's dark eyes sparkled, how the gems on herfull neck and dazzling arms glittered, how readily she uttered a wittyrepartee to each gay sally. 

"Claudia unaccompanied!" cried a young noble. "The strangest sight atthis remarkable carnival!"

"I am fasting, " she answered gaily; "and now that I long for meagrefood, you come! What a lucky chance!"

"Heavy Grimani has also become a very light man, with your assistance. "

"That's why he flew away. Suppose you follow him?"

"Gladly, gladly, if you will accompany me. "

"Excuse me to-day; there comes my knight. "

Ulrich had remained absent a long time, but Claudia had not noticedit. Now he bowed to the gentlemen, offered her his arm, and as theydescended the staircase, whispered: "The mask who escorted you just nowdetained me;--and there. . . See, they are picking him up down there inthe court-yard. --He attacked me. . . . "

"You have--you. . . . "

"'They came to his assistance immediately. He barred my way with hisunsheathed blade. "

Claudia hastily drew her hand from the artist's arm, exclaiming in alow, anxious tone: "Go, go, unhappy man, whoever you may be! It wasLuigi Grimani; it was a Grimani! You are lost, if they find you. Go, ifyou love your life, go at once!"

So ended the Shrove-Tuesday, which had begun so gloriously for the youngartist. Titian's "well done" no longer sounded cheerfully in his ears, the "go, go, " of the venal woman echoed all the more loudly. 

De Soto was waiting for him, to repeat to him the high praise he hadheard bestowed upon his art-test at Titian's; but Ulrich heard nothing, for he gave the secretary no time to speak, and the latter could onlyecho the beautiful Claudia's "go, go!" and then smooth the way for hisflight. 

When the morning of Ash-Wednesday dawned cool and misty, Venicelay behind the young artist. Unpursued, but without finding rest orsatisfaction, he went to Parma, Bologna, Pisa, Florence. 

Grimani's death burdened his conscience but lightly. Duelling was abattle in miniature, to kill one's foe no crime, but a victory. Fardifferent anxieties tortured him. 

Venice, whither the "word" had led him, from which he had hoped andexpected everything, was lost to him, and with it Titian's favor andCagliari's instruction. 

He began to doubt himself, his future, the sublime word and its magicspell. The greater the works which the traveller's eyes beheld, the moreinsignificant he felt, the more pitiful his own powers, his own skillappeared. 

"Draw, draw!" advised every master to whom he applied, as soon as hehad seen his work. The great men, to whom he offered himself as a pupil, required years of persevering study. But his time was limited, for themisguided youth's faithful German heart held firmly to one resolve; hemust present himself to Coello at the end of the appointed time. Thehappiness of his life was forfeited, but no one should obtain the rightto call him faithless to his word, or a scoundrel. 

In Florence he heard Sebastiano Filippi--who had been a pupil of MichaelAngelo-praised as a good drawer; so he sought him in Ferrara and foundhim ready to teach him what he still lacked. But the works of the newmaster did not please him. The youth, accustomed to Moor's wonderfulclearness, Titian's brilliant hues, found Filippi's pictures indistinct, as if veiled by grey mists. Yet he forced himself to remain with him formonths, for he was really remarkably skilful in drawing, and his studionever lacked nude models; he needed them for the preliminary studies forhis "Day of Judgment. "

Without satisfaction, without pleasure in the wearisome work, withoutlove for the sickly master, who held aloof from any social intercoursewith him when the hours of labor were over, he felt discontented, bored, disenchanted. 

In the evening he sought diversion at the gaming-table, and fortunefavored him here as it had done in Venice. His purse overflowed withzechins; but with the red gold, Art withdrew from him her powerful ally, necessity, the pressing need of gaining a livelihood by the exertion ofhis own strength. 

He spent the hours appointed for study like a careless lover, and workedwithout inclination, without pleasure, without ardor, yet with visibleincrease of skill. 

In gambling he forgot what tortured him, it stirred his blood, dispelledweariness; the gold was nothing to him. 

The lion's share of his gains he loaned to broken gamblers, withoutexpectation of return, gave to starving artists, or flung with lavishhand to beggars. 

So the months in Ferrara glided by, and when the allotted time was over, he took leave of Sebastiano Filippi without regret. He returned by seato Spain, and arrived in Madrid richer than he had gone away, but withimpoverished confidence in his own powers, and doubting the omnipotenceof Art. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Ulrich again stood before the Alcazar, and recalled the hour when, apoor lad, just escaped from prison, he had been harshly rebuffed bythe same porter, who now humbly saluted the young gentleman attired incostly velvet. 

And yet how gladly he would have crossed this threshold poor as in thosedays, but free and with a soul full of enthusiasm and hope; how joyfullyhe would have effaced from his life the years that lay between that timeand the present. 

He dreaded meeting the Coellos; nothing but honor urged him to presenthimself to them. 

Yes--and if the old man rejected him?--so much the better!

The old cheerful confusion reigned in the studio. He had a long time towait there, and then heard through several doors Senora Petra's scoldingvoice and her husband's angry replies. 

At last Coello came to him and after greeting him, first formally, thencordially, and enquiring about his health and experiences, he shruggedhis shoulders, saying:

"My wife does not wish you to see Isabella again before the trial. You must show what you can do, of course; but I. . . . You look well andapparently have collected reales. Or is it true, " and he moved his handas if shaking a dice-box. "He who wins is a good fellow, but we want nomore to do with such people here! You find me the same as of old, andyou have returned at the right time, that is something. De Soto has toldme about your quarrel in Venice. The great masters were pleased withyou and this, you Hotspur, you forfeited! Ferrara for Venice! A poorexchange. Filippi--understands drawing; but otherwise. . . . MichaelAngelo's pupil! Does he still write on his back? Every monk is God'sservant, but in how few does the Lord dwell! What have you drawn withSebastiano?"

Ulrich answered these questions in a subdued tone; and Coello listenedwith only partial attention, for he heard his wife telling the duennaCatalina in an adjoining room what she thought of her husband's conduct. She did so very loudly, for she wished to be overheard by him andUlrich. But she was not to obtain her purpose, for Coello suddenlyinterrupted the returned travellers story, saying:

"This is getting beyond endurance. If she does her utmost, you shallsee Isabella. A welcome, a grasp of the hand, nothing more. Poor younglovers! If only it did not require such a confounded number of things tolive. . . . Well, we will see!"

As soon as the artist had entered the adjoining room, a new and moreviolent quarrel arose there, but, though Senora Petra finally called afainting-fit to her aid, her husband remained firm, and at last returnedto the studio with Isabella. 

Ulrich had awaited her, as a criminal expects his sentence. Now shestood before him led by her father's hand-and he, he struck his foreheadwith his fist, closed his eyes and opened them again to look at her--togaze as if he beheld a wondrous apparition. Then feeling as if he shoulddie of shame, grief, and joyful surprise, he stood spellbound, and knewnot what to do, save to extend both hands to her, or what to say, save"I. . . I--I, " then with a sudden change of tone exclaimed like a madman:

"You don't know! I am not. . . . Give me time, master. Here, here, girl, you must, you shall, all must not be over!"

He had opened his arms wide, and now hastily approached her with theeager look of the gambler, who has staked his last penny on a card. 

Coello's daughter did not obey. 

She was no longer little, unassuming Belita; here stood no child, buta beautiful, blooming maiden. In eighteen months her figure had gainedheight; anxious yearning and constant contention with her mother hadwasted her superabundance of flesh; her face had become oval, herbearing self-possessed. Her large, clear eyes now showed their fullbeauty, her half-developed features had acquired exquisite symmetry, andher raven-black hair floated, like a shining ornament, around her pale, charming face. 

"Happy will be the man, who is permitted to call this woman his own!"cried a voice in the youth's breast, but another voice whispered "Lost, lost, forfeited, trifled away!"

Why did she not obey his call? Why did she not rush into his open arms?Why, why?

He clenched his fists, bit his lips, for she did not stir, except topress closely to her father's side. 

This handsome, splendidly-dressed gentleman, with the pointed beard, deep-set eyes, and stern, gloomy gaze, was an entirely different personfrom the gay enthusiastic follower of art, for whom her awakening hearthad first throbbed more quickly; this was not the future master, whostood before her mind as a glorious favorite of fortune and the muse, transfigured by joyous creation and lofty success--this defiant giantdid not look like an artist. No, no; yonder man no longer resembled theUlrich, to whom, in the happiest hour of her life, she had so willingly, almost too willingly, offered her pure lips. 

Isabella's young heart contracted with a chill, yet she saw that helonged for her; she knew, could not deny, that she had bound herself tohim body and soul, and yet--yet, she would so gladly have loved him. 

She strove to speak, but could find no words, save "Ulrich, Ulrich, " andthese did not sound gay and joyous, but confused and questioning. 

Coello felt her fingers press his shoulder closer and closer. She wassurely seeking protection and aid from him, to keep her promise andresist her lover's passionate appeal. 

Now his darling's eyes filled with tears, and he felt the tremor of herlimbs. 

Softened by affectionate weakness and no longer able to resist theimpulse to see his little Belita happy, he whispered:

"Poor thing, poor young lovers! Do as you choose, I won't look. "

But Isabella did not leave him; she only drew herself up higher, summoned all her courage and looking the returned traveller moresteadily in the face, said:

"You are so changed, so entirely changed, Ulrich I cannot tell what hascome over me. I have anticipated this hour day and night, and now it ishere;--what is this? What has placed itself between us?"

"What, indeed!" he indignantly exclaimed, advancing towards her with athreatening air. "What? Surely you must know! Your mother has destroyedyour regard for the poor bungler. Here I stand! Have I kept my promise, yes or no? Have I become a monster, a venomous serpent? Do not look atme so again, do not! It will do no good; to you or me. I will not allowmyself to be trifled with!"

Ulrich had shouted these words, as if some great injustice had been donehim, and he believed himself in the right. 

Coello tried to release himself from his daughter, to confront thepassionately excited man, but she held him back, and with a pale faceand trembling voice, but proud and resolute manner, answered:

"No one has trifled with you, I least of all; my love has been earnest, sacred earnest. "

"Earnest!" interrupted Ulrich, with cutting irony. 

"Yes, yes, sacred earnest;--and when my mother told me you had killed aman and left Venice for a worthless woman's sake, when it was rumored, that in Ferrara you had become a gambler, I thought: 'I know him better, they are slandering him to destroy the love you bear in your heart. ' Idid not believe it; but now I do. I believe it, and shall do so, tillyou have withstood your trial. For the gambler I am too good, to theartist Navarrete I will joyfully keep my promise. Not a word, I willhear no more. Come, father! If he loves me, he will understand how towin me. I am afraid of this man. "

Ulrich now knew who was in fault, and who in the right. Strong impulseurged him away from the studio, away from Art and his betrothed bride;for he had forfeited all the best things in life. 

But Coello barred his way. He was not the man, for the sake of a brawland luck at play, to break friendship with the faithful companion, whohad shown distinctly enough how fondly he loved his darling. He hadhidden behind these bushes himself in his youth, and yet become askilful artist and good husband. 

He willingly yielded to his wife in small matters, in important oneshe meant to remain master of the house. Herrera was a great scholar andartist, but an insignificant man; and he allowed himself to be paidlike a bungler. Ulrich's manly beauty had pleased him, and under his, Coello's teaching, he would make his mark. He, the father knew betterwhat suited Isabella than she herself. Girls do not sob so bitterlyas she had done, as soon as the door of the studio closed behind her, unless they are in love. 

Whence did she obtain this cool judgment? Certainly not from him, farless from her mother. 

Perhaps she only wished to arouse Navarrete to do his best at the trial. Coello smiled; it was in his power to judge mildly. 

So he detained Ulrich with cheering words, and gave him a task in whichhe could probably succeed. He was to paint a Madonna and Child, and twomonths were allowed him for the work. There was a studio in the Casadel Campo, he could paint there and need only promise never to visit theAlcazar before the completion of the work. 

Ulrich consented. Isabella must be his. Scorn for scorn!

She should learn which was the stronger. 

He knew not whether he loved or hated her, but her resistance hadpassionately inflamed his longing to call her his. He was determined, by summoning all his powers, to create a masterpiece. What Titian hadapproved must satisfy a Coello! so he began the task. 

A strong impulse urged him to sketch boldly and without longconsideration, the picture of the Madonna, as it had once lived in hissoul, but he restrained himself, repeating the warning words which hadso often been dinned into his ears: Draw, draw!

A female model was soon found; but instead of trusting his eyes andboldly reproducing what he beheld, he measured again and again, andeffaced what the red pencil had finished. While painting his couragerose, for the hair, flesh, and dress seemed to him to become true tonature and effective. But he, who in better times had bound himselfheart and soul to Art and served her with his whole soul, in thispicture forced himself to a method of work, against which his inmostheart rebelled. His model was beautiful, but he could read nothingin the regular features, except that they were fair, and the lifelesscountenance became distasteful to him. The boy too caused him greattrouble, for he lacked appreciation of the charm of childish innocence, the spell of childish character. 

Meantime he felt great secret anxiety. The impulse that moved his brushwas no longer the divine pleasure in creation of former days, but dreadof failure, and ardent, daily increasing love for Isabella. 

Weeks elapsed. 

Ulrich lived in the lonely little palace to which he had retired, avoiding all society, toiling early and late with restless, joylessindustry, at a work which pleased him less with every new day. 

Don Juan of Austria sometimes met him in the park. Once the Emperor'sson called to him:

"Well, Navarrete, how goes the enlisting?"

But Ulrich would not abandon his art, though he had long doubted itsomnipotence. The nearer the second month approached its close, the morefrequently, the more fervently he called upon the "word, " but it did nothear. 

When it grew dark, a strong impulse urged him to go to the city, seekbrawls, and forget himself at the gaming-table; but he did not yield, and to escape the temptation, fled to the church, where he spent wholehours, till the sacristan put out the lights. 

He was not striving for communion with the highest things, he felt nohumble desire for inward purification; far different motives influencedhim. 

Inhaling the atmosphere laden with the soft music of the organ and thefragrant incense, he could converse with his beloved dead, as if theywere actually present; the wayward man became a child, and felt all thegentle, tender emotions of his early youth again stir his heart. 

One night during the last week before the expiration of the allottedtime, a thought which could not fail to lead him to his goal, dartedinto his brain like a revelation. 

A beautiful woman, with a child standing in her lap, adorned the canvas. 

What efforts he had made to lend these features the right expression. 

Memory should aid him to gain his purpose. What woman had ever beenfairer, more tender and loving than his own mother?

He distinctly recalled her eyes and lips, and during the last few daysremaining to him, his Madonna obtained Florette's joyous expression, while the sensual, alluring charm, that had been peculiar to the mouthof the musician's daughter, soon hovered around the Virgin's lips. 

Ay, this was a mother, this must be a true mother, for the pictureresembled his own!

The gloomier the mood that pervaded his own soul, the more sunny andbright the painting seemed. He could not weary of gazing at it, for ittransported him to the happiest hours of his childhood, and when theMadonna looked down upon him, it seemed as if he beheld the balsamsbehind the window of the smithy in the market-place, and again saw theHandsome nobles, who lifted him from his laughing mother's lap to sethim on their shoulders. 

Yes! In this picture he had been aided by the "joyous art, " in whosehonor Paolo Veronese, had at one of Titian's banquets, started up, drained a glass of wine to the dregs, and hurled it through the windowinto the canal. 

He believed himself sure of success, and could no longer cherish angeragainst Isabella. She had led him back into the right path, and it wouldbe sweet, rapturously sweet, to bear the beloved maiden tenderly andgently in his strong arms over the rough places of life. 

One morning, according to the agreement, he notified Coello that theMadonna was completed. 

The Spanish artist appeared at noon, but did not come alone, and theman, who preceded him, was no less important a personage than the kinghimself. 

With throbbing heart, unable to utter a single word, Ulrich openedthe door of the studio, bowing low before the monarch, who withoutvouchsafing him a single glance, walked solemnly to the painting. 

Coello drew aside the cloth that covered it, and the sarcastic chuckleUlrich had so often heard instantly echoed from the king's lips; thenturning to Coello he angrily exclaimed, loud enough to be heard by theyoung artist:

"Scandalous! Insulting, offensive botchwork! A Bacchante in the garb ofa Madonna! And the child! Look at those legs! When he grows up, he maybecome a dancing-master. He who paints such Madonnas should drop hiscolors! His place is the stable--among refractory horses. "

Coello could make no reply, but the king, glancing at the picture again, cried wrathfully:

"A Christian's work, a Christian's! What does the reptile who paintedthis know of the mother, the Virgin, the stainless lily, the thornlessrose, the path by which God came to men, the mother of sorrow, whobought the world with her tears, as Christ did with His sacred blood. Ihave seen enough, more than enough! Escovedo is waiting for me outside!We will discuss the triumphal arch to-morrow!"

Philip left the studio, the court-artist accompanying him to the door. 

When he returned, the unhappy youth was still standing in the sameplace, gazing, panting for breath, at his condemned work. 

"Poor fellow!" said Coello, compassionately, approaching him; but Ulrichinterrupted, gasping in broken accents:

"And you, you? Your verdict!"

The other shrugged his shoulders and answered with sincere pity:

"His Majesty is not indulgent; but come here and look yourself. I willnot speak of the child, though it. . . . In God's name, let us leave it asit is. The picture impresses me as it did the king, and the Madonna--Igrieve to say it, she belongs anywhere rather than in Heaven. Howoften this subject is painted! If Meister Antonio, if Moor should seethis. . . . "

"Then, then?" asked Ulrich, his eyes glowing with a gloomy fire. 

"He would compel you to begin at the beginning once more. I am sincerelysorry for you, and not less so for poor Belita. My wife will triumph!You know I have always upheld your cause; but this luckless work. . . . "

"Enough!" interrupted the youth. Rushing to the picture, he thrust hismaul-stick through it, then kicked easel and painting to the floor. 

Coello, shaking his head, watched him, and tried to soothe him withkindly words, but Ulrich paid no heed, exclaiming:

"It is all over with art, all over. A Dios, Master! Your daughter doesnot care for love without art, and art and I have nothing more to dowith each other. "

At the door he paused, strove to regain his self-control, and at lastheld out his hand to Coello, who was gazing sorrowfully after him. 

The artist gladly extended his, and Ulrich, pressing it warmly, murmuredin an agitated, trembling voice:

"Forgive this raving. . . . It is only. . I only feel, as if I was bearingall that had been dear to me to the grave. Thanks, Master, thanksfor many kindnesses. I am, I have--my heart--my brain, everything isconfused. I only know that you, that Isabella, have been kind to me andI, I have--it will kill me yet! Good fortune gone! Art gone! A Dios, treacherous world! A Dios, divine art!"

As he uttered the last sentence he drew his hand from the artist'sgrasp, rushed back into the studio, and with streaming eyes pressed hislips to the palette, the handle of the brush, and his ruined picture;then he dashed past Coello into the street. 

The artist longed to go to his child; but the king detained him in thepark. At last he was permitted to return to the Alcazar. 

Isabella was waiting on the steps, before the door of their apartments. She had stood there a long, long time. 

"Father!" she called. 

Coello looked up sadly and gave an answer in the negative bycompassionately waving his hand. 

The young girl shivered, as if a chill breeze had struck her, and whenthe artist stood beside her, she gazed enquiringly at him with her darkeyes, which looked larger than ever in the pallid, emaciated face, andsaid in a low, firm tone:

"I want to speak to him. You will take me to the picture. I must seeit. "

"He has thrust his maul-stick through it. Believe me, child, you wouldhave condemned it yourself. "

"And yet, yet! I must see it, " she answered earnestly, "see itwith these eyes. I feel, I know--he is an artist. Wait, I'll get mymantilla. "

Isabella hurried back with flying feet, and when a short time after, wearing the black lace kerchief on her head, she descended the staircaseby her father's side, the private secretary de Soto came towards them, exclaiming:

"Do you want to hear the latest news, Coello? Your pupil Navarrete hasbecome faithless to you and the noble art of painting. Don Juan gave himthe enlistment money fifteen minutes ago. Better be a good trooper, thana mediocre artist! What is the matter, Senorita?"

"Nothing, nothing, " Isabella murmured gently, and fell fainting on herfather's breast. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Two years had passed. A beautiful October day was dawning; no clouddimmed the azure sky, and the sun's disk rose, glowing crimson, behindthe narrow strait, that afforded ingress to the Gulf of Corinth. 

The rippling waves of the placid sea, which here washed the sunny shoresof Hellas, yonder the shady coasts of the Peloponnesus, glittered likefresh blooming blue-bottles. 

Bare, parched rocks rise in naked beauty at the north of the bay, andthe rays of the young day-star shot golden threads through the lightwhite mists, that floated around them. 

The coast of Morea faces the north; so dense shadows still rested on thestony olive-groves and the dark foliage of the pink laurel and oleanderbushes, whose dense clumps followed the course of the stream and filledthe ravines. 

How still, how pleasant it usually was here in the early morning!

White sea-gulls hovered peacefully over the waves, a fishing-boat orgalley glided gently along, making shining furrows in the blue mirrorof the water; but today the waves curled under the burden of countlessships, to-day thousands of long oars lashed the sea, till the surgessplashed high in the air with a wailing, clashing sound. To-day therewas a loud clanking, rattling, roaring on both sides of the water-gate, which afforded admittance to the Bay of Lepanto. 

The roaring and shouting reverberated in mighty echoes from the barenorthern cliffs, but were subdued by the densely wooded southern shore. 

Two vast bodies of furious foes confronted each other like wrestlers, who stretch their sinewy arms to grasp and hurl their opponents to theground. 

Pope Pius the Fifth had summoned Christianity to resist theland-devouring power of the Ottomans. Cyprus, Christian Cyprus, the lastprovince Venice possessed in the Levant, had fallen into the handsof the Moslems. Spain and Venice had formed an alliance with Christ'svicegerent; Genoese, other Italians, and the Knights of St. John wereassembling in Messina to aid the league. 

The finest and largest Christian armada, which had left a Christianport for a long time, put forth to sea from this harbor. In spite ofall intrigues, King Philip had entrusted the chief command to his younghalf-brother, Don Juan of Austria. 

The Ottomans too had not been idle, and with twelve myriads of soldierson three hundred ships, awaited the foe in the Gulf of Lepanto. 

Don Juan made no delay. The Moslems had recently murdered thousands ofChristians at Cyprus, an outrage the fiery hero could not endure, so hecast to the winds the warnings and letters of counsel from Madrid, which sought to curb his impetuous energy, his troops, especially theVenetians, were longing for vengeance. 

But the Moslems were no less eager for the fray, and at the close of hiscouncil-of-war, and contrary to its decision, Kapudan Pacha sailed tomeet the enemy. 

On the morning of October 7th every ship, every man was ready forbattle. 

The sun appeared, and from the Spanish ships musical bell-notes rosetowards heaven, blending with the echoing chant: "Allahu akbar, allahuakbar, allahu akbar, " and the devout words: "There is no God save Allah, and Mohammed is the prophet of Allah; to prayer!"

"To prayer!" The iron tongue of the bell uttered the summons, as wellas the resonant voice of the Muezzin, who to-day did not call theworshippers to devotion from the top of a minaret, but from the mastheadof a ship. On both sides of the narrow seagate, thousands of Moslems andChristians thought, hoped and believed, that the Omnipotent One heardthem. 

The bells and chanting died away, and a swift galley with Don Juan onboard, moved from ship to ship. The young hero, holding a crucifix inhis hand, shouted encouraging words to the Christian soldiers. 

The blare of trumpets, roll of drums, and shouts of command echoed fromthe rocky shores. 

The armada moved forward, the admiral's galley, with Don Juan, at itshead. 

The Turkish fleet advanced to meet it. 

The young lion no longer asked the wise counsel of the experiencedadmiral. He desired nothing, thought of nothing, issued no orders, except "forward, " "attack, " "board, " "kill, " "sink, " "destroy!"

The hostile fleets clashed into the fight as bulls, bellowing sullenly, rush upon each other with lowered heads and bloodshot eyes. 

Who, on this day of vengeance, thought of Marco Antonio Colonna's planof battle, or the wise counsels of Doria, Venieri, Giustiniani?

Not the clear brain and keen eye--but manly courage and strength wouldturn the scale to-day. Alexander Farnese, Prince of Parma, had joinedhis young uncle a short time before, and now commanded a squadron ofGenoese ships in the front. He was to keep back till Doria orderedhim to enter the battle. But Don Juan had already boarded the vesselcommanded by the Turkish admiral, scaled the deck, and with a heavysword-stroke felled Kapudan Pacha. Alexander witnessed the scene, hisimpetuous, heroic courage bore him on, and he too ordered: "Forward!"

What was the huge ship he was approaching? The silver crescent deckedits scarlet pennon, rows of cannon poured destruction from its sides, and its lofty deck was doubly defended by bearded wearers of the turban. 

It was the treasure-galley of the Ottoman fleet. It would be a gallantachievement could the prince vanquish this bulwark, this stronghold ofthe foe; which was three times greater in size, strength, and number ofits crew, than Farnese's vessel. What did he care, what recked he of theshower of bullets and tar-hoops that awaited him?

Up and at them. 

Doria made warning signals, but the prince paid no heed, he wouldneither see nor hear them. 

Brave soldiers fell bleeding and gasping on the deck beside him, hismast was split and came crashing down. "Who'll follow me?" he shouted, resting his hand on the bulwark. 

The tried Spanish warriors, with whom Don Juan had manned his vessel, hesitated. Only one stepped mutely and resolutely to his side, flingingover his shoulder the two-handed sword, whose hilt nearly reached to thetall youth's eyes. 

Every one on board knew the fair-haired giant. It was the favorite ofthe commander in chief--it was Navarrete, who in the war against theMoors of Cadiz and Baza had performed many an envied deed of valor. Hisarm seemed made of steel; he valued his life no more than one of theplumes in his helmet, and risked it in battle as recklessly as he didhis zechins at the gaming-table. 

Here, as well as there, he remained the winner. 

No one knew exactly whence he came as he never mentioned his family, for he was a reserved, unsocial man; but on the voyage to Lepanto hehad formed a friendship with a sick soldier, Don Miguel Cervantes. Thelatter could tell marvellous tales, and had his own peculiar opinionsabout everything between heaven and earth. 

Navarrete, who carried his head as high as the proudest grandee, devotedevery leisure hour to his suffering comrade, uniting the affection of abrother, with the duties of a servant. 

It was known that Navarrete had once been an artist, and he seemedone of the most fervent of the devout Castilians, for he entered everychurch and chapel the army passed, and remained standing a long, longtime before many a Madonna and altar-painting as if spellbound. 

Even the boldest dared not attack him, for death hovered over his sword, yet his heart had not hardened. He gave winnings and booty with lavishhand, and every beggar was sure of assistance. 

He avoided women, but sought the society of the sick and wounded, oftenwatching all night beside the couch of some sorely-injured comrade, andthis led to the rumor that he liked to witness death. 

Ah, no! The heart of the proud, lonely man only sought a place where itmight be permitted to soften; the soldier, bereft of love, needed somenook where he could exercise on others what was denied to himself:"devoted affection. "

Alexander Farnese recognized in Navarrete the horse-tamer of thepicadero in Madrid; he nodded approvingly to him, and mounted thebulwark. But the other did not follow instantly, for his friend DonMiguel had joined him, and asked to share the adventure. Navarrete andthe captain strove to dissuade the sick man, but the latter suddenlyfelt cured of his fever, and with flashing eyes insisted on having hisown way. 

Ulrich did not wait for the end of the dispute, for Farnese was nowspringing into the hostile ship, and the former, with a bold leap, followed. 

Alexander, like himself, carried a two-Banded sword, and both swungthem as mowers do their scythes. They attacked, struck, felled, andthe foremost foes shrank from the grim destroyers. Mustapha Pacha, thetreasurer and captain of the galley, advanced in person to confront theterrible Christians, and a sword-stroke from Alexander shattered thehand that held the curved sabre, a second stretched the Moslem on thedeck. 

But the Turks' numbers were greatly superior and threatened to crush theheroes, when Don Miguel Cervantes, Ulrich's friend, appeared withtwelve fresh soldiers on the scene of battle, and cut their way to thehard-pressed champions. Other Spanish and Genoese warriors followed andthe fray became still more furious. 

Ulrich had been forced far away from his royal companion-in-arms, andwas now swinging his blade beside his invalid friend. Don Miguel'sbreast was already bleeding from two wounds, and he now fell by Ulrich'sside; a bullet had broken his left arm. 

Ulrich stooped and raised him; his men surrounded him, and the Turkswere scattered, as the tempest sweeps clouds from the mountain. 

Don Miguel tried to lift the sword, which had dropped from his grasp, but he only clutched the empty air, and raising his large eyes as ifin ecstasy, pressed his hand upon his bleeding breast, exclaimingenthusiastically: "Wounds are stars; they point the way to the heaven offame-of-fame. . . . "

His senses failed, and Ulrich bore him in his strong aims to a part ofthe treasure-ship, which was held by Genoese soldiers. Then he rushedinto the fight again, while in his ears still rang his friend's fervidwords:

"The heaven of fame!"

That was the last, the highest aim of man! Fame, yes surely fame was the"word"; it should henceforth be his word!

It seemed as if a gloomy multitude of heavy thunderclouds had gatheredover the still, blue arm of the sea. The stifling smoke of powderdarkened the clear sky like black vapors, while flashes of lightning andpeals of thunder constantly illumined and shook the dusky atmosphere. 

Here a magazine flew through the air, there one ascended with a fiercecrash towards the sky. Wails of pain and shouts of victory, the blareof trumpets, the crash of shattered ships and falling masts blended inhellish uproar. 

The sun's light was obscured, but the gigantic frames of huge burninggalleys served for torches to light the combatants. 

When twilight closed in, the Christians had gained a decisive victory. Don Juan had killed the commander-in-chief of the Ottoman force, AliPacha, as Farnese hewed down the treasurer. Uncle and nephew emergedfrom the battle as heroes worthy of renown, but the glory of thisvictory clung to Don Juan's name. 

Farnese's bold assault was kindly rebuked by the commander-in-chief, and when the former praised Navarrete's heroic aid before Don Juan, the general gave the bold warrior and gallant trooper, the honorablecommission of bearing tidings of the victory to the king. Two galleysstood out to sea in a westerly direction at the same time: a Spanishone, bearing Don Juan's messenger, and a Venetian ship, conveying thecourier of the Republic. 

The rowers of both vessels had much difficulty in forcing a way throughthe wreckage, broken masts and planks, the multitude of dead bodies andnet work of cordage, which covered the surface of the water; but evenamid these obstacles the race began. 

The wind and sea were equally favorable to both galleys; but theVenetians outstripped the Spaniards and dropped anchor at Alicantetwenty-four hours before the latter. 

It was the rider's task, to make up for the time lost by the sailors. The messenger of the Republic was far in advance of the general's. Everywhere that Ulrich changed horses, displaying at short intervalsthe prophet's banner, which he was to deliver to the king as the fairesttrophy of victory--it was inscribed with Allah's name twenty-eightthousand nine hundred times--he met rejoicing throngs, processions, andfestal decorations. 

Don Juan's name echoed from the lips of men and women, girls andchildren. This was fame, this was the omnipresence of a god; there couldbe no higher aspiration for him, who had obtained such honor. 

Fame, fame! again echoed in Ulrich's soul; if there is a word, whichraises a man above himself and implants his own being in that ofmillions of fellow-creatures, it is this. 

And now he urged one steed after another until it broke down, givinghimself no rest even at night; half an hour's ride outside of Madrid heovertook the Venetian, and passed by him with a courteous greeting. 

The king was not in the capital, and he went on without delay to theEscurial. 

Covered with dust, splashed from head to foot with mud, bruised, tortured as if on the rack, he clung to the saddle, yet never ceased touse whip and spur, and would trust his message to no other horseman. 

Now the barren peaks of the Guadarrama mountains lay close before him, now he reached the first workshops, where iron was being forged for thegigantic palace in process of building. How many chimneys smoked, howmany hands were toiling for this edifice, which was to comprise a royalresidence, a temple, a peerless library, a museum and a tomb. 

Numerous carts and sledges, on which blocks of light grey granite hadbeen drawn hither, barred his way. He rode around them at the peril offalling with his horse over a precipice, and now found himself beforea labyrinth of scaffolds and free-stone, in the midst of a wild, grey, treeless mountain valley. What kind of a man was this, who had chosenthis desert for his home, in life as well as in death! The Escurialsuited King Philip, as King Philip suited the Escurial. Here he feltmost at ease, from here the royal spider ceaselessly entangled the worldin his skilful nets. 

His majesty was attending vespers in the scarcely completed chapel. Thechief officer of the palace, Fray Antonio de Villacastin, seeingUlrich slip from his horse, hastened to receive the tottering soldier'stidings, and led him to the church. 

The 'confiteor' had just commenced, but Fray Antonio motioned to thepriests, who interrupted the Mass, and Ulrich, holding the prophet'sstandard high aloft, exclaimed: "An unparalleled victory!--Don Juan . . . October 7th. . . ! at Lepanto--the Ottoman navy totally destroyed. . . !"

Philip heard this great news and saw the standard, but seemed to haveneither eyes nor ears; not a muscle in his face stirred, no movementbetrayed that anything was passing in his mind. Murmuring in asarcastic, rather than a joyous tone: "Don Juan has dared much, " he gavea sign, without opening the letter, to continue the Mass, remaining onhis knees as if nothing had disturbed the sacred rite. 

The exhausted messenger sank into a pew and did not wake from hisstupor, until the communion was over and the king had ordered a Te Deumfor the victory of Lepanto. 

Then he rose, and as he came out of the pew a newly-married couplepassed him, the architect, Herrera, and Isabella Coello, radiant inbeauty. 

Ulrich clenched his fist, and the thought passed through his mind, that he would cast away good-fortune, art and fame as carelessly assoap-bubbles, if he could be in Herrera's place. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

What fame is--Ulrich was to learn!

He saw in Messina the hero of Lepanto revered as a god. Wherever thevictor appeared, fair hands strewed flowers in his path, balconies andwindows were decked with hangings, and exulting women and girls, joyouschildren and grave men enthusiastically shouted his name and flunglaurel-wreaths and branches to him. Messages, congratulations and giftsarrived from all the monarchs and great men of the world. 

When he saw the wonderful youth dash by, Ulrich marvelled that his steeddid not put forth wings and soar away with him into the clouds. But hetoo, Navarrete, had done his duty, and was to enjoy the sweetness ofrenown. When he appeared on Don Juan's most refractory steed, amongthe last of the victor's train, he felt that he was not overlooked, andoften heard people tell each other of his deeds. 

This made him raise his head, swelled his heart, urged him into newpaths of fame. 

The commander-in-chief also longed to press forward, but found himselfcondemned to inactivity, while he saw the league dissolve, and the fruitof his victory wither. King Philip's petty jealousy opposed his wishes, poisoned his hopes, and barred the realization of his dreams. 

Don Juan was satiated with fame. "Power" was the food for which helonged. The busy spider in the Escurial could not deprive him of thelaurel, but his own "word, " his highest ambition in life, his power, hewould consent to share with no mortal man, not even his brother. 

"Laurels are withering leaves, power is arable land, " said Don Juan toEscovedo. 

It befits an emperor's son, thought Ulrich, to cherish such loftywishes; to men of lower rank fame can remain the guiding star on life'spathway. 

The elite of the army was in the Netherlands; there he could find whathe desired. 

Don Juan let him go, and when fame was the word, Ulrich had no cause tocomplain of its ill-will. 

He bore the standard of the proud "Castilian" regiment, and when strangetroops met him as he entered a city, one man whispered to another: "Thatis Navarrete, who was in the van at every assault on Haarlem, who, whenall fell back before Alkmaar, assailed the walls again, it was not hisfault that they were forced to retreat. . . He turned the scale with hismen on Mook-Heath. . . Have you heard the story? How, when struck by twobullets, he wrapped the banner around him, and fell with, and on it, upon the grass. "

And now, when with the rebellious army he had left the island ofSchouwen behind him and was marching through Brabant, it was said:

"Navarrete! It was he, who led the way for the Spaniards with thestandard on his head, when they waded through the sea that stormy night, to surprise Zierikzee. "

Whoever bore arms in the Netherlands knew his name; but the citizensalso knew who he was, and clenched their fists when they spoke of him. 

On the battle-field, in the water, on the ice, in the breaches oftheir firm walls, in burning cities, in streets and alleys, incouncil-chambers and plundered homes, he had confronted them asa murderer and destroyer. Yet, though the word fame had long beenembittered to him, the inhumanity which clung to his deeds had the leastshare in it. 

He was the servant of his monarch, nothing more. All who bore the nameof Netherlander were to him rebels and heretics, condemned by God, sentenced by his king; not worthy peasants, skilful, industriouscitizens, noble men, who were risking property and life for religion andliberty. 

This impish crew disdained to pray to the merciful mother of God and thesaints, these temple violators had robbed the churches of their statues, driven the pious monks and nuns from their cloisters! They called thePope the Anti-Christ, and in every conquered city he found satiricalsongs and jeering verses about his lord, the king, his generals and allSpaniards. 

He had kept the faith of his childhood, which was shared by everyone who bore arms with him, and had easily obtained absolution, nay, encouragement and praise, for the most terrible deeds of blood. 

In battle, in slaughter, when his wounds burned, in plundering, at thegaming-table, everywhere he called upon the Holy Virgin, and also, butvery rarely, on the "word, " fame. 

He no longer believed in it, for it did not realize what he hadanticipated. The laurel now rustled on his curls like withered leaves. Fame would not fill the void in his heart, failed to satisfy hisdiscontented mind; power offered the lonely man no companionship ofthe soul, it could not even silence the voice which upbraidedhim--the unapproachable champion, him at whom no mortal dared to lookaskance--with being a miserable fool, defrauded of true happiness andthe right ambition. 

This voice tortured him on the soft down beds in the town, on the strawin the camp, over his wine and on the march. 

Yet how many envied him. Ay! when he bore the standard at the head ofthe regiment he marched like a victorious demi-god! No one else couldsupport so well as he the heavy pole, plated with gold, and the largeembroidered silken banner, which might have served as a sail for astately ship; but he held the staff with his right hand, as if theburden intrusted to him was an easily-managed toy. Meantime, withinimitable solemnity, he threw back the upper portion of the body andhis curly head, placing his left hand on his hip. The arch of the broadchest stood forth in fine relief, and with it the breast-plate andpoints of his armor. He seemed like a proud ship under swelling sails, and even in hostile cities, read admiration in the glances of the gapingcrowd. Yet he was a miserable, discontented man, and could not helpthinking more and more frequently of Don Juan's "word. "

He no longer trusted to the magic power of a word, as in former times. Still, he told himself that the "arable field" of the emperor's son, "power, " was some thing lofty and great-ay, the loftiest aim a man couldhope to attain. 

Is not omnipotence God's first attribute? And now, on the march fromSchouwen through Brabant, power beckoned to him. He had already tastedit, when the mutinous army to which he belonged attempted to pillage asmithy. He had stepped before the spoilers and saved the artisan's lifeand property. Whoever swung the hammer before the bellows was sacred tohim; he had formerly shared gains and booty with many a plundered memberof his father's craft. 

He now carried a captain's staff, but this was mere mummery, child'splay, nothing more. A merry soldier's-cook wore a captain's plume on theside of his tall hat. The field-officer, most of the captains andthe lieutenants, had retired after the great mutiny on the islandof Schouwen was accomplished, and their places were now occupied byensigns, sergeants and quartermasters. The higher officers had goneto Brussels, and the mutinous army marched without any chief throughBrabant. 

They had not received their well-earned pay for twenty-two months, andthe starving regiments now sought means of support wherever they couldfind them. 

Two years since, after the battle of Mook-Heath, the army had helpeditself, and at that time, as often happened on similar occasions, an Eletto--[The chosen one. The Italian form is used, instead of theSpanish 'electo'. ]--had been chosen from among the rebellious subalternofficers. Ulrich had then been lying seriously wounded, but after theend of the mutiny was told by many, that no other would have been madeEletto had he only been well and present. Now an Eletto was again tobe chosen, and whoever was elected would have command of at least threethousand men, and possibly more, as it was expected that other regimentswould join the insurrection. To command an army! This was power, thiswas the highest attainment; it was worth risking life to obtain it. 

The regiments pitched their camp at Herenthals, and here the electionwas to be held. 

In the arrangement of the tents, the distribution of the wagons whichsurrounded the camp like a wall, the stationing of field-pieces atthe least protected places, Ulrich had the most authority, and whileexercising it forced himself, for the first time in his life, to appeargentle and yielding, when he would far rather have uttered words ofcommand. He lived in a state of feverish excitement; sleep deserted hiscouch, he imagined that every word he heard referred to himself and hiselection. 

During these days he learned to smile when he was angry, to speakpleasantly while curses were burning on his lips. He was careful not tobetray by look, word, or deed what was passing in his mind, as he fearedthe ridicule that would ensue should he fail to achieve his purpose. 

One more day, one more night, and perhaps he would becommander-in-chief, able to conquer a kingdom and keep the world interror. Perhaps, only perhaps; for another was seeking with dangerousmeans to obtain control of the army. 

This was Sergeant-Major and Quartermaster Zorrillo, an excellentand popular soldier, who had been chosen Eletto after the battle ofMook-Heath, but voluntarily resigned his office at the first seriousopposition he encountered. 

It was said that he had done this by his wife's counsel, and this womanwas Ulrich's most dangerous foe. 

Zorrillo belonged to another regiment, but Ulrich had long known him andhis companion, the "campsibyl. "

Wine was sold in the quartermaster's tent, which, before the outbreak ofthe mutiny, had been the rendezvous of the officers and chaplains. 

The sibyl entertained the officers with her gay conversation, while theydrank or sat at the gaining-table; she probably owed her name to theskill she displayed in telling fortunes by cards. The common soldiersliked her too, because she took care of their sick wives and children. 

Navarrete preferred to spend his time in his own regiment, so he did notmeet the Zorrillos often until the mutiny at Schouwen and on the marchthrough Brabant. He had never sought, and now avoided them; for he knewthe sibyl was leaving no means untried to secure her partner's election. Therefore he disliked them; yet he could not help occasionally enteringtheir tent, for the leaders of the mutiny held their counsels there. Zorrillo always received him courteously; but his companion gazed at himso intently and searchingly, that an anxious feeling, very unusual tothe bold fellow, stole over him. 

He could not help asking himself whether he had seen her before, andwhen the thought that she perhaps resembled his mother, once entered hismind, he angrily rejected it. 

The day before she had offered to tell his fortune; but he refusedpoint-blank, for surely no good tidings could come to him from thoselips. 

To-day she had asked what his Christian name was, and for the firsttime in years he remembered that he was also called "Ulrich. " Now hewas nothing but "Navarrete, " to himself and others. He lived solely forhimself, and the more reserved a man is, the more easily his Christianname is lost to him. 

As, years before, he had told the master that he was called nothing butUlrich, he now gave the harsh answer: "I am Navarrete, that's enough!"

CHAPTER XXV. 

Towards evening, the members of the mutiny met at the Zorrillos to holda council. 

The weather outside was hot and sultry, and the more people assembled, the heavier and more oppressive became the air within the spacioustent, the interior of which looked plain enough, for its whole furnitureconsisted of some small roughly-made tables, some benches and chairs, and one large table, and a superb ebony chest with ivory ornaments, evidently stolen property. On this work of art lay the pillows usedat night, booty obtained at Haarlem; they were covered with bright butworn-out silk, which had long shown the need of the thrifty touch ofa woman's hand. Pictures of the saints were pasted on the walls, and acrucifix hung over the door. 

Behind the great table, between a basket and the wine cask, from whichthe sibyl replenished the mugs, stood a high-backed chair. A coarsebarmaid, who had grown up in the camp, served the assembled men, but shehad no occasion to hurry, for the Spaniards were slow drinkers. 

The guests sat, closely crowded together, in a circle, and seemed graveand taciturn; but their words sounded passionate, imperious, defiant, and the speakers often struck their coats of mail with their clenchedfists, or pounded on the floor with their swords. 

If there was any difference of opinion, the disputants flew into afurious rage, and then a chorus of fierce, blustering voices rose likea tenfold echo. It often seemed as if the next instant swords must flyfrom their sheaths and a bloody brawl begin; but Zorrillo, who had beenchosen to preside over the meeting, only needed to raise his batonand command order, to transform the roar into a low muttering; theweather-beaten, scarred, pitiless soldiers, even when mutineers, yieldedwilling obedience to the word of command and the iron constraint ofdiscipline. 

On the sea and at Schouwen their splendid costumes had obtained abeggarly appearance. The velvet and brocade extorted from the richcitizens of Antwerp, now hung tattered and faded around their sinewylimbs. They looked like foot-pads, vagabonds, pirates, yet sat, asmilitary custom required, exactly in the order of their rank; on themarch and in the camp, every insurgent willingly obeyed the orders ofthe new leader, who by the fortune of war had thrown pairs-royal on thedrumhead. 

One thing was certain: some decisive action must be taken. Every oneneeded doublets and shoes, money and good lodgings. But in what waycould these be most easily procured? By parleying and submitting onacceptable conditions, said some; by remaining free and capturing acity, roared others; first wealthy Mechlin, which could be speedilyreached. There they could get what they wanted without money. Zorrillocounselled prudent conduct; Navarrete impetuously advised bold action. They, the insurgents, he cried, were stronger than any other militaryforce in the Netherlands, and need fear no one. If they begged andentreated they would be dismissed with copper coins; but if theyenforced their demands they would become rich and prosperous. 

With flashing eyes he extolled what the troops, and he himself had done;he enlarged upon the hardships they had borne, the victories won for theking. He asked nothing but good pay for blood and toil, good pay, notcoppers and worthless promises. 

Loud shouts of approval followed his speech, and a gunner, who now heldthe rank of captain, exclaimed enthusiastically:

"Navarrete, the hero of Lepanto and Haarlem, is right! I know whom Iwill choose. "

"Victor, victor Navarrete!" echoed from many a bearded lilt. 

But Zorrillo interrupted these declarations, exclaiming, not withoutdignity, while raising his baton still higher. "The election will takeplace to-morrow, gentlemen; we are holding a council to-day. It isvery warm in here; I feel it as much as you do. But before we separate, listen a few minutes to a man, who means well. " Zorrillo now explainedall the reasons, which induced him to counsel negotiations and afriendly agreement with the commander-in-chief. There was sound, statesmanlike logic in his words, yet his language did not lack warmthand charm. The men perceived that he was in earnest, and while he spokethe sibyl went behind him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and wiped theperspiration from his brow with her handkerchief. Zorrillo permittedit, and without interrupting himself, gave her a grateful, affectionateglance. 

The bronzed warriors liked to look at her, and even permitted her toutter a word of advice or warning during their discussions, for she wasa wise woman, not one of the ordinary stamp. Her blue eyes sparkledwith intelligence and mirth, her full lips seemed formed for quick, gayrepartee, she was always kind and cheer ful in her manner even to themost insignificant. But whence came the deep lines about her red mouthand the outer corners of her eyes? She covered them with rouge everyday, to conceal the evidence of the sorrowful hours she spent whenalone? The lines were well disguised, yet they increased, and year byyear grew deeper. 

No wrinkle had yet dared to appear on the narrow forehead; and thedelicate features, dazzlingly-white teeth, girlish figure, and winningsmile lent this woman a youthful aspect. She might be thirty, or perhapseven past forty. 

A pleasure made her younger by ten summers, a vexation transformed herinto a matron. The snow white hair, carefully arranged on her forehead, seemed to indicate somewhat advanced age; but it was known that ithad turned grey in a few days and nights, eight years before, when adiscontented blackguard stabbed the quartermaster, and he lay for weeksat the point of death. 

This white hair harmonized admirably with the red cheeks of thecamp-sibyl, who appreciating the fact, did not dye it. 

During Zorrillo's speech her eyes more than once rested on Ulrich with astrangely intense expression. As soon as he paused, she went back againbehind the table to the crying child, to cradle it in her arms. 

Zorrillo--perceiving that a new and violent argument was about to breakforth among the men--closed the meeting. Before adjourning, however, itwas unanimously decided that the election should be held on the morrow. 

While the soldiers noisily rose, some shaking hands with Zorrillo, somewith Navarrete, the stately sergeant-major of a German lansquenet troop, which was stationed in Antwerp, and did not belong to the insurgents, entered the wide open door of the tent. His dress was gay and in goodorder; a fine Dalmatian dog followed him. 

A thunder-storm had begun, and it was raining violently. Some of theSpaniards were twisting their rosaries, and repeating prayers, butneither thunder, lightning, nor water seemed to have destroyed theGerman's good temper, for he shook the drops from his plumed hat with amerry "phew, " gaily introducing himself to his comrades as an envoy fromthe Pollviller regiment. 

His companions, he said, were not disinclined to join the "freearmy"--he had come to ask how the masters of Schouwen fared. 

Zorrillo offered the sergeant-major a chair, and after the latter hadraised and emptied two beakers from the barmaid's pewter waiter in quicksuccession, he glanced around the circle of his rebel comrades. Some hehad met before in various countries, and shook hands with them. Then hefixed his eyes on Ulrich, pondering where and under what standard he hadseen this magnificent, fair-haired warrior. 

Navarrete recognizing the merry lansquenet, Hans Eitelfritz of Colln onthe Spree, held out his hand, and cried in the Spanish language, whichthe lansquenet had also used:

"You are Hans Eitelfritz! Do you remember Christmas in the Black Forest, Master Moor, and the Alcazar in Madrid?"

"Ulrich, young Master Ulrich! Heavens and earth!" cried Eitelfritz;--butsuddenly interrupted himself; for the sibyl, who had risen from thetable to bring the envoy, with her own hands, a larger goblet of wine, dropped the beaker close beside him. 

Zorrillo and he hastily sprung to support the tottering woman, who wasalmost fainting. But she recovered herself, waving them back with a mutegesture. 

All eyes were fixed upon her, and every one was startled; for she stoodas if benumbed, her bright, youthful face had suddenly become aged andhaggard. "What is the matter?" asked Zorrillo anxiously. Recovering herself-control, she answered hastily "The thunder, the storm. . . . "

Then, with short, light steps, she went back to the table, and as sheresumed her seat the bell for evening prayers was heard outside. 

Most of the company rose to obey the summons. 

"Good-bye till to-morrow morning, Sergeant! The election will take placeearly to-morrow. "

"A Dios, a Dios, hasta mas ver, Sibila, a Dios!" was loudly shouted, andsoon most of the guests had left the tent. 

Those who remained behind were scattered among the different tables. Ulrich sat at one alone with Hans Eitelfritz. 

The lansquenet had declined Zorrillo's invitation to join him; an oldfriend from Madrid was present, with whom he wished to talk over happierdays. The other willingly assented; for what he had intended to sayto his companions was against Ulrich and his views. The longer thesergeant-major detained him the better. Everything that recalledMaster Moor was dear to Ulrich, and as soon as he was alone with HansEitelfritz, he again greeted him in a strange mixture of Spanishand German. He had forgotten his home, but still retained a partialrecollection of his native language. Every one supposed him to be aSpaniard, and he himself felt as if he were one. 

Hans Eitelfritz had much to tell Ulrich; he had often met Moor inAntwerp, and been kindly received in his studio. 

What pleasure it afforded Navarrete to hear from the noble artist, how he enjoyed being able to speak German again after so many years, difficult as it was. It seemed as if a crust melted away from his heart, and none of those present had ever seen him so gay, so full of youthfulvivacity. Only one person knew that he could laugh and play noisily, andthis one was the beautiful woman at the long table, who knew not whethershe should die of joy, or sink into the earth with shame. 

She had taken the year old infant from the basket. It was a pale, punylittle creature, whose father had fallen in battle, and whose mother haddeserted it. 

The handsome standard-bearer yonder was called Ulrich! He must be herson! Alas, and she could only cast stolen glances at him, listen bystealth to the German words that fell from the beloved lips. Nothingescaped her notice, yet while looking and listening, her thoughtswandered to a far distant country, long vanished days; beside thebearded giant she saw a beautiful, curly-haired child; besides theman's deep voice she heard clear, sweet childish tones, that called her"mother" and rang out in joyous, silvery laughter. 

The pale child in her arms often raised its little hand to its cheek, which was wet with the tears of the woman; who tended it. How hard, howunspeakably, terribly hard it was for this woman, with the youthful faceand white locks, to remain quiet! How she longed to start up and calljoyously to the child, the man, her lover's enemy, but her own, ownUlrich:

"Look at me, look at me! I am your mother. You are mine! Come, come tomy heart! I will never leave you more!"

Ulrich now laughed heartily again, not suspecting what was passing ina mother's heart, close beside him; he had no eyes for her, and onlylistened to the jests of the German lansquenet, with whom he drainedbeaker after beaker. 

The strange child served as a shield to protect the camp-sibyl fromher son's eyes, and also to conceal from him that she was watching, listening, weeping. Eitelfritz talked most and made one joke afteranother; but she did not laugh, and only wished he would stop and letUlrich speak, that she might be permitted to hear his voice again. 

"Give the dog Lelaps a little corner of the settle, " cried HansEitelfritz. "He'll get his feet wet on the damp floor--for the rainis trickling in--and take cold. This choice fellow isn't like ordinarydogs. "

"Do you call the tiger Lelaps?" asked Ulrich. "An odd name. "

"I got him from a student at Tubingen, dainty Junker Fritz of Hallberg, in exchange for an elephant's tusk I obtained in the Levant, and he oweshis name to the merry rogue. I tell you, he's wiser than many learnedmen; he ought to be called Doctor Lelaps. "

"He's a pretty creature. "

"Pretty! More, far more! For instance, at Naples we had the famousMortadella sausage for breakfast, and being engaged in eagerconversation, I forgot him. What did my Lelaps do? He slipped quietlyinto the garden, returned with a bunch of forget-me-nots in his mouth, and offered it to me, as a gallant presents a bouquet to his fair one. That meant: dogs liked sausage too, and it was not seemly to forget him. What do you say to that show of sense?"

"I think your imagination more remarkable than the dog's sagacity. "

"You believed in my good fortune in the old days, do you now doubt thistrue story?"

"To be sure, that is rather preposterous, for whoever loyally andfaithfully trusts good-fortune--your good fortune--is ill-advised. Haveyou composed any new songs?"

"'That is all over now!" sighed the trooper. "See this scar! Since aninfidel dog cleft my skull before Tunis, I can write no more verses;yet it hasn't grown quiet in my upper story on that account. I lie now, instead of composing. My boon companions enjoy the nonsensical trash, when I pour it forth at the tavern. "

"And the broken skull: is that a forget-me-not story too, or was it. . . . "

"Look here! It's the actual truth. It was a bad blow, but there's agrain of good in everything evil. For instance, we were in the Africandesert just dying of thirst, for that belongs to the desert as much asthe dot does to the letter i. Lelaps yonder was with me, and scenteda spring. Then it was necessary to dig, but I had neither spade norhatchet, so I took out the loose part of the skull, it was a hard pieceof bone, and dug with it till the water gushed out of the sand, then Idrank out of my brain-pan as if it were a goblet. "

"Man, man!" exclaimed Ulrich, striking his clenched fist on the table. 

"Do you suppose a dog can't scent a spring?" asked Eitelfritz, withcomical wrath. "Lelaps here was born in Africa, the native land oftigers, and his mother. . . . "

"I thought you got him in Tubingen?"

"I said just now that I tell lies. I imposed upon you, when I made youthink Lelaps came from Swabia; he was really born in the desert, wherethe tigers live. 

"No offence, Herr Ulrich! We'll keep our jests for another evening. Assoon as I'm knocked down, I stop my nonsense. Now tell me, where shallI find Navarrete, the standard-bearer, the hero of Lepanto and Schouwen?He must be a bold fellow; they say Zorrillo and he. . . . "

The lansquenet had spoken loudly; the quartermaster, who caught the nameNavarrete, turned, and his eyes met Ulrich's. 

He must be on his guard against this man. 

The instant Zorrillo recognized him as a German, he would hold apowerful weapon. The Spaniards would give the command only to aSpaniard. 

This thought now occurred to him for the first time. It had neededthe meeting with Hans Eitelfritz, to remind him that he belonged to adifferent nation from his comrades. Here was a danger to be encountered, so with the rapid decision, acquired in the school of war, he laid hishand heavily on his countryman's, saying in a low, impressive tone: "Youare my friend, Hans Eitelfritz, and have no wish to injure me. "

"Zounds, no! What's up?"

"Well then, keep to yourself where and how we first met each other. Don't interrupt me. I'll tell you later in my tent, where you must takeup your quarters, how I gained my name, and what I have experienced inlife. Don't show your surprise, and keep calm. I, Ulrich, the boy fromthe Black Forest, am the man you seek, I am Navarrete. "

"You?" asked the lansquenet, opening his eyes in amazement. "Nonsense!You're paying me off for the yarns I told you just now. "

No, Hans Eitelfritz, no! I am not jesting, I mean it. I am Navarrete!Nay more! If you keep your mouth shut, and the devil doesn't put hisfinger into the pie, I think, spite of all the Zorrillos, I shall beEletto to-morrow. 

"You know the Spanish temper! The German Ulrich will be a very differentperson to them from the Castilian Navarrete. It is in your power tospoil my chance. "

The other interrupted him by a peal of loud, joyous laughter, thenshouted to the dog: "Up, Lelaps! My respects to Caballero Navarrete. "

The Spaniards frowned, for they thought the German was drunk, but HansEitelfritz needed more liquor than that to upset his sobriety. 

Flashing a mischievous glance at Ulrich from his bright eyes, hewhispered: "If necessary, I too can be silent. You man without acountry! You soldier of fortune! A Swabian the commander of thesestiffnecked braggarts. Now see how I'll help you. "

"What do you mean to do?" asked Ulrich; but Hans Eitelfritz had alreadyraised the huge goblet, banging it down again so violently that thetable shook. Then he struck the top with his clenched fist, and whenthe Spaniards fixed their eyes on him, shouted in their language: "Yes, indeed, it was delightful in those days, Caballero Navarrete. Youruncle, the noble Conde in what's its name, that place in Castile, youknow, and the Condesa and Condesilla. Splendid people! Do you rememberthe coal-black horses with snow-white tails in your father's stable, and the old servant Enrique. There wasn't a longer nose than his inall Castile! Once, when I was in Burgos, I saw a queer, longish shadowcoming round a street corner, and two minutes after, first a nose andthen old Enrique appeared. "

"Yes, yes, " replied Ulrich, guessing the lansquenet's purpose. "But ithas grown late while we've been gossiping; let us go!"

The woman at the table had not heard the whispers exchanged between thetwo men; but she guessed the object of the lansquenet's loud words. Asthe latter slowly rose, she laid the child in the basket, drew a longbreath, pressed her fingers tightly upon her eyes for a short time, andthen went directly up to her son. 

Florette did not know herself, whether she owed the name of sibyl to herskill in telling fortunes by cards, or to her wise counsel. Twelveyears before, while still sharing the tent of the Walloon captainGrandgagnage, it had been given her, she could not say how or by whom. The fortune-telling she had learned from a sea-captain's widow, withwhom she had lodged a long time. 

When her voice grew sharp and weaker, in order to retain considerationand make herself important, she devoted herself to predicting thefuture; her versatile mind, her ambition, and the knowledge ofhuman-nature gained in the camp and during her wanderings from land toland, aided her to acquire remarkable skill in this strange pursuit. 

Officers of the highest rank had sat opposite to her cards, listening toher oracular sayings, and Zorrillo, the man who had now been her loverfor ten years, owed it to her influence, that he did not lose hisposition as quartermaster after the last mutiny. 

Hans Eitelfritz had heard of her skill and when, as he was leaving, sheapproached and offered to question the cards for him, he would not allowUlrich to prevent him from casting a glance into the future. 

On the whole, what was predicted to him sounded favorable, but theprophetess did not keep entirely to the point, for in turning the cardsshe found much to say to Ulrich, and once, pointing to the red and greenknaves, remarked thoughtfully: "That is you, Navarrete; that is thisgentleman. You must have met each other on some Christmas day, and nothere, but in Germany; if I see rightly, in Swabia. "

She had just overheard all this. 

But a shudder ran through Ulrich's frame when he heard it, and thiswoman, whose questioning glance had always disturbed him, now inspiredhim with a mysterious dread, which he could not control. He rose towithdraw; but she detained him, saying: "Now it is your turn, Captain. "

"Some other time, " replied Ulrich, repellently. "Good fortune alwayscomes in good time, and to know ill-luck in advance, is a misfortune Ishould think. "

"I can read the past, too. "

Ulrich started. He must learn what his rival's companion knew of hisformer life, so he answered quickly, "Well, for aught I care, begin. "

"Gladly, gladly, but when I look into the past, I must be alone with thequestioner. Be kind enough to give Zorrillo your company for quarter ofan hour, Sergeant. "

"Don't believe everything she tells you, and don't look too deep intoher eyes. Come, Lelaps, my son!" cried the lansquenet, and did as he wasrequested. 

The woman dealt the cards silently, with trembling hands, but Ulrichthought: "Now she will try to sound me, and a thousand to one will doeverything in her power to disgust me with desiring the Eletto's baton. That's the way blockheads are caught. We will keep to the past. "

His companion met this resolution halfway; for before she had dealt thelast two rows, she rested her chin on the cards in her hands and, tryingto meet his glance, asked:

"How shall we begin? Do you still remember your childhood?"

"Certainly. "

"Your father?"

"I have not seen him for a long time. Don't the cards tell you, that heis dead?"

"Dead, dead:--of course he's dead. You had a mother too?"

"Yes, yes, " he answered impatiently; for he was unwilling to talk withthis woman about his mother. 

She shrank back a little, and said sadly: "That sounds very harsh. Doyou no longer like to think of your mother?"

"What is that to you?"

"I must know. "

"No, what concerns my mother is. . . I will--is too good for juggling. "

"Oh, " she said, looking at him with a glance from which he shrank. Thenshe silently laid down the last cards, and asked: "Do you want to hearanything about a sweetheart?"

"I have none. But how you look at me! Have you grown tired of Zorrillo?I am ill-suited for a gallant. "

She shuddered slightly. Her bright face had again grown old, so oldand weary that he pitied her. But she soon regained her composure, andcontinued:

"What are you saying? Ask the questions yourself now, if you please. "

"Where is my native place?"

"A wooded, mountainous region in Germany. "

"Ah, ha! and what do you know of my father?"

"You look like him, there is an astonishing resemblance in the foreheadand eyes; his voice, too, was exactly like yours. "

"A chip of the old block. "

"Well, well. I see Adam before me. . . . "

"Adam?" asked Ulrich, and the blood left his cheeks. 

"Yes, his name was Adam, " she continued more boldly, with increasingvivacity: "there he stands. He wears a smith's apron, a small leathercap rests on his fair hair. Auriculas and balsams stand in thebow-window. A roan horse is being shod in the market-place below. "

The soldier's head swam, the happiest period of his childhood, which hehad not recalled for a long time, again rose before his memory; he sawhis father stand before him, and the woman, the sibyl yonder, had theeyes and mouth, not of his mother, but of the Madonna he had destroyedwith his maul-stick. Scarcely able to control himself, he grasped herhand, pressing it violently, and asked in German:

"What is my name? And what did my mother call me?"

She lowered her eyes as if in shame, and whispered softly in German:"Ulrich, Ulrich, my darling, my little boy, my lamb, Ulrich--my child!Condemn me, desert me, curse me, but call me once more 'my mother. '"

"My mother, " he said gently, covering his face with his hands--but shestarted up, hurried back to the pale baby in the cradle, and pressingher face upon the little one's breast, moaned and wept bitterly. 

Meantime, Zorrillo had not averted his eyes from Navarrete and hiscompanion. What could have passed between the two, what ailed the man?

Rising slowly, he approached the basket before which the sibyl waskneeling, and asked anxiously: "What was it, Flora?"

She pressed her face closer to the weeping child, that he might not seeher tears, and answered quickly "I predicted things, things. . . Go, Iwill tell you about it later. "

He was satisfied with this answer, but she was now obliged to join theSpaniards, and Ulrich took leave of her with a silent salutation. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

The Spanish nature is contagious, thought Hans Eitelfritz, tossing onhis couch in Ulrich's tent. What a queer fellow the gay young lad hasbecome! Sighs are cheap with him, and every word costs a ducat. He isworthy all honor as a soldier. If they make him Eletto, it will be worthwhile to join the free army. 

Ulrich had briefly told the lansquenet, how he had obtained the nameof Navarrete and how he had come from Madrid and Lepanto to theNetherlands. Then he went to rest, but he could not sleep. 

He had found his mother again. He now possessed the best gift Ruthhad asked him to beseech of the "word. " The soldier's sweetheart, thefaithless wife, the companion of his rival, whom only yesterday he hadavoided, the fortune-teller, the camp-sibyl, was the woman who had givenhim birth. He, who thought he had preserved his honor stainless, whosehand grasped the sword if another looked askance at him, was the childof one, at whom every respectable woman had the right to point herfinger. All these thoughts darted through his brain; but strangelyenough, they melted like morning mists when the sun rises, before thefeeling of joy that he had his mother again. 

Her image did not rise before his memory in Zorrillo's tent, but framedby balsams and wall-flowers. His vivid imagination made her twenty yearsyounger, and how beautiful she still was, how winningly she could glanceand smile. Every appreciative word, all the praises of the sibyl'sbeauty, good sense and kindness, which he had heard in the camp, cameback freshly to his mind, and he would fain have started up to throwhimself on her bosom, call her his mother, hear her give him all thesweet, pet names, which sounded so tender from her lips, and feelthe caress of her soft hands. How rich the solitary man felt, howsurpassingly rich! He had been entirely alone, deserted even by hismother! Now he was so no longer, and pleasant dreams blended with hisambitious plans, like golden threads in dark cloth. 

When power was once his, he would build her a beautiful, cosy nest withhis share of the booty. She must leave Zorrillo, leave him to-morrow. The little nest should belong to her and him alone, entirely alone, andwhen his soul longed for peace, love, and quiet, he would rest therewith her, recall with her the days of his childhood, cherish and carefor her, make her forget all her sins and sufferings, and enjoy to thefull the happiness of having her again, calling a loving mother's hearthis own. 

At every breath he drew he felt freer and gayer. Suddenly there was arustling at the tent-door. He seized his two-handed sword, but did notraise it, for a beloved voice he recognized, called softly: "Ulrich, Ulrich, it is I!"

He started up, hastily threw on his doublet, rushed towards her, claspedher in his arms, and let her stroke his curls, kiss his cheeks and eyes, as in the old happy days. Then he drew her into the tent, whispering"Softly, softly, the snorer yonder is the German. "

She followed him, leaned against him, and raised his hand to her lips;he felt them grow wet with tears. They had not yet said anything to eachother, except how happy, how glad, how thankful they were to have eachother again; then a sentinel passed, and she started up, exclaiminganxiously: "So late, so late; Zorrillo will be waiting!"

"Zorrillo!" cried Ulrich scornfully, "you have been a long time withhim. If they give me the power. . . . "

"They will choose you, child, they shall choose you, " she hastilyinterrupted. "Oh, God! oh, God! perhaps this will bring you misfortuneinstead of blessing; but you desire it! Count Mannsfeld is comingtomorrow; Zorrillo knows it. He will bring a pardon for all; promotionstoo, but no money yet. "

"Oh, ho!" cried Ulrich, "that may decide the matter. "

"Perhaps so, you deserve to command them. You were born for some specialpurpose, and your card always turns up so strangely. Eletto! It soundsproud and grand, but many have been ruined by it. . . . "

"Because power was too hard for them. "

"It must serve you. You are strong. A child of good fortune. Folly! Iwill not fear. You have probably fared well in life. Ah, my lamb, I havedone little for you, but one thing I did unceasingly: I prayed for you, poor boy, morning and night; have you noticed, have you felt it?"

He drew her to his heart again, but she released herself from hisembrace, saying: "To-morrow, Ulrich; Zorrillo. . . . "

"Zorrillo, always Zorrillo, " he repeated, his blood boiling angrily. "You are mine and, if you love me, you will leave him. "

"I cannot, Ulrich, it will not do. He is kind, you will yet be friends. "

"We, we? On the day of judgment, nay, not even then! Are you more firmlybound to yon smooth fellow, than to my honest father? There standssomething in the darkness, it is good steel, and if needful will cut thetie asunder. "

"Ulrich, Ulrich!" wailed Flora, raising her hands beseechingly. "Notthat, not that; it must not be. He is kind and sensible, and loves mefondly. Oh, Heaven! Oh, Ulrich! The mother has glided to her son atnight, as if she were following forbidden paths. Oh, this is indeed apunishment. I know how heavily I have sinned, I deserve whatever maybefall me; but you, you must not make me more wretched, than I alreadyam. Your father, he. . . If he were still alive, for your sake I wouldcrawl to him on my knees, and say: 'Here I am, forgive me'--but he isdead. Pasquale, Zorrillo lives; do not think me a vain, deluded woman;Zorrillo cannot bear to have me leave him. . . . "

"And my father? He bore it. But do you know how? Shall I describe hislife to you?"

"No, no! Oh, child, how you torture me! I know how I sinned against yourfather, the thought does not cease to torture me, for he truly loved me, and I loved him, too, loved him tenderly. But I cannot keep quiet along time, and cast down my eyes, like the women there, it is not inmy blood; and Adam shut me up in a cage and for many years let me seenothing except himself, and the cold, stupid city in the ravine by theforest. One day a fierce longing came upon me, I could not help goingforth--forth into the wide world, no matter with whom or whither. Thesoldier only needed to hint and I fell. --I did not stay with him long, he was a windy braggart; but I was faithful to Captain Grandgagnage andaccompanied the wild fellow with the Walloons through every land, untilhe was shot. Then ten years ago, I joined Zorrillo; he is my friend, he shares my feelings, I am necessary to his existence. Do not laugh, Ulrich; I well know that youth lies behind me, that I am old, yetPasquale loves me; since I have had him, I have been more content and, Holy Virgin! now--I love him in return. Oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven! Why isit so? This heart, this miserable heart, still throbs as fast as it didtwenty years ago. "

"You will not leave him?"

"No, no, I love him, and I know why. Every one calls him a brave man, yet they only half know him; no one knows him wholly as I do. No oneelse is so good, so generous. You must let me speak! Do you suppose Iever forgot you? Never, never! But you have always been to me the dearlittle boy; I never thought of you as a man, and since I could not haveyou and longed so greatly for you, for a child, I opened my heart tothe soldiers' orphans, the little creature you saw in the tent is one ofthese poor things, I have often had two or three such babies at the sametime. It would have been an abomination to Grandgagnage, but Zorrillorejoices in my love for children, and I have given what the Walloonbequeathed me and his own booty to the soldiers' widows and the littlenaked babies in the camp. He was satisfied, for whatever I do pleaseshim. I will not, cannot leave him!"

She paused, hiding her face in her hands, but Ulrich paced to and fro, violently agitated. At last he said firmly: "Yet you must part from him. He or I! I will have nothing to do with the lover of my father's wife. I am Adam's son, and will be constant to him. Ah, mother, I have beendeprived of you so long. You can tend strangers' orphaned children, yetyou make your own son an orphan. Will you do this? No, a thousand times, no, you cannot! Do not weep so, you must not weep! Hear me, hear me! Formy sake, leave this Spaniard! You will not repent it. I have just beendreaming of the nest I will build for you. There I will cherish and carefor you, and you shall keep as many orphan children as you choose. Leave him, mother, you must leave him for the sake of your child, yourUlrich!"

"Oh, God! oh, God!" she sobbed. "I will try, yes, I will try. . . . Mychild, my dear child!"

Ulrich clasped her closely in his arms, kissed her hair, and said, softly: "I know, I know, you need love, and you shall find it with me. "

"With you!" she repeated, sobbing. Then releasing herself from hisembrace she hurried to the feverish woman, at whose summons she had lefther tent. 

As morning dawned, she returned home and found Zorrillo still awake. He enquired about her patient, and told her he had given the childsomething to drink while she was away. 

Flora could not help weeping bitterly again, and Zorrillo, noticing it, exclaimed chidingly: "Each has his own griefs to bear, it is not wise totake strangers' troubles so deeply to heart. "

"Strangers' troubles, " she repeated, mournfully, and went to rest. 

White-haired woman, why have you remained so young? All the cares andsorrows of youth and age are torturing you at the same time! One loveis fighting a mortal battle with another in your breast. Which willconquer?

She knows, she knew it ere she entered the tent. The mother fled fromthe child, but she cannot abandon her new-found son. Oh, maternal love, thou dost hover in radiant bliss far above the clouds, and amid choirsof angels! Oh, maternal heart, thou dost bleed pierced with swords, morefull of sorrows than any other!

Poor, poor Florette! On this July morning she was enduring superhumantortures, all the sins she had committed arrayed themselves against her, shrieking into her ear that she was a lost woman, and there could be nopardon for her either in this world or the next. Yet!--the clouds driftby, birds of passage migrate, the musician wanders singing from landto land, finds love, and remorselessly strips off light fetters to seekothers. His child imitates the father, who had followed the exampleof his, the same thing occurring back to their remotest ancestors!But eternal justice? Will it measure the fluttering leaf by the samestandard as the firmly-rooted plant?

When Zorrillo saw Flora by the daylight, he said, kindly: "You have beenweeping?"

"Yes, " she answered, fixing her eyes on the ground. He thought she wasanxious, as on a former occasion, lest his election to the office ofEletto might prove his ruin, so he drew her towards him, exclaiming"Have no fear, Bonita. If they choose me, and Mannsfeld comes, as hepromised, the play will end this very day. I hope, even at the twelfthhour, they will listen to reason, and allow themselves to be guided intothe right course. If they make the young madcap Eletto--his head will beat stake, not mine. Are you ill? How you look, child! Surely, surely youmust be suffering; you shall not go out at night to nurse sick peopleagain!"

The words came from an anxious heart, and sounded warm and gentle. They penetrated Florette's inmost soul, and overwhelmed with passionateemotion she clasped his hands, kissed them, and exclaimed, softly"Thanks, thanks, Pasquale, for your love, for all. I will never, neverforget it, whatever happens! Go, go; the drum is beating again. "

Zorrillo fancied she was uttering mere feverish ravings, and begged herto calm herself; then he left the tent, and went to the place where theelection was to be held. 

As soon as Flora was alone, she threw herself on her knees before theMadonna's picture, but knew not whether it would be right to pray thather son might obtain an office, which had proved the ruin of so many;and when she besought the Virgin to give her strength to leave herlover, it seemed to her like treason to Pasquale. 

Her thoughts grew confused, and she could not pray. Her mobile mindwandered swiftly from lofty to petty things; she seized the cards to seewhether fate would unite her to Zorrillo or to Ulrich, and the red ten, which represented herself, lay close beside the green knave, Pasquale. She angrily threw them down, determined, in spite of the oracle, tofollow her son. 

Meantime in the camp drums beat, fifes screamed shrilly, trumpetsblared, and the shouts and voices of the assembled soldiers sounded likethe distant roar of the surf. 

A fresh burst of military music rang out, and now Florette started toher feet and listened. It seemed as if she heard Ulrich's voice, and therapid throbbing of her heart almost stopped her breath. She must go out, she must see and hear what was passing. Hastily pushing the white hairback from her brow, she threw a veil over it, and hurried through thecamp to the spot where the election was taking place. 

The soldiers all knew her and made way for her. The leaders of themutineers were standing on the wall of earth between the field-pieces, and amid the foremost rank, nay, in front of them all, her son wasaddressing the crowd. 

The choice wavered between him and Zorrillo. Ulrich had already beenspeaking a long time. His cheeks were glowing and he looked so handsome, so noble, in his golden helmet, from beneath which floated his thick, fair locks, that her heart swelled with joy, and as the nightgrows brighter when the black clouds are torn asunder and the moonvictoriously appears, grief and pain were suddenly irradiated bymaternal love and pride. 

Now he drew his tall figure up still higher, exclaiming: "Others arereadier and bolder with the tongue than I, but I can speak with thesword as well as any one. "

Then raising the heavy two-handed sword, which others laboriouslymanaged with both hands, he swung it around his head, using only hisright hand, in swift circles, until it fairly whistled through the air. 

The soldiers shouted exultingly as they beheld the feat, and when he hadlowered the weapon and silence was restored, he continued, defiantly, while his breath came quick and short: "And where do the talkers, theparleyers seek to lead us? To cringe like dogs, who lick their masters'feet, before the men who cheat us. Count Mannsfeld will come to-day; Iknow it, and I have also learned that he will bring everything exceptwhat is our due, what we need, what we intend to demand, what we requirefor our bare feet, our ragged bodies; money, money he has not to offer!This is so, I swear it; if not, stand forth, you parleyers, and giveme the lie! Have you inclination or courage to give the lie toNavarrete?--You are silent!--But we will speak! We will not sufferourselves to be mocked and put off! What we demand is fair pay for goodwork. Whoever has patience, can wait. Mine is exhausted. 

"We are His Majesty's obedient servants and wish to remain so. As soonas he keeps his bargain, he can rely upon us; but when he breaks it, weare bound to no one but ourselves, and Santiago! we are not the weakerparty. We need money, and if His Majesty lacks ducats, a city where wecan find what we want. Money or a city, a city or money! The demandis just, and if you elect me, I will stand by it, and not shrink ifit rouses murmuring behind me or against me. Whoever has a brave heartunder his armor, let him follow me; whoever wishes to creep afterZorrillo, can do so. Elect me, friends, and I will get you more than weneed, with honor and fame to boot. Saint Jacob and the Madonna will aidus. Long live the king!"

"Long live the king! Long live Navarrete! Navarrete! Hurrah forNavarrete!" echoed loudly, impetuously from a thousand bearded lips. 

Zorrillo had no opportunity to speak again. The election was made. 

Ulrich was chosen Eletto. 

As if on wings, he went from man to man, shaking hands with hiscomrades. Power, power, the highest prize on earth, was attained, washis! The whole throng, soldiers, tyros, women, girls and children, crowded around him, shouting his name; whoever wore a hat or cap, tossedit in the air, whoever had a kerchief, waved it. Drums beat, trumpetssounded, and the gunner ordered all the field-pieces to be discharged, for the choice pleased him. 

Ulrich stood, as if intoxicated, amid the shouts, shrieks of joy, military music, and thunder of the cannon. He raised his helmet, wavedsalutations to the crowd, and strove to speak, but the uproar drownedhis words. 

After the election Florette slipped quietly away; first to the emptytent then to the sick woman who needed her care. 

The Eletto had no time to think of his mother; for scarcely had he givena solemn oath of loyalty to his comrades and received theirs, when CountMannsfeld appeared. 

The general was received with every honor. He knew Navarrete, and thelatter entered into negotiations with the manly dignity natural tohim; but the count really had nothing but promises to offer, and theinsurgents would not give up their demand: "Money or a city!"

The nobleman reminded them of their oath of allegiance, made lavishuse of kind words, threats and warnings, but the Eletto remained firm. Mannsfeld perceived that he had come in vain; the only concession hecould obtain from Navarrete was, that some prudent man among the leadersshould accompany him to Brussels, to explain the condition of theregiments to the council of state there, and receive fresh proposals. Then the count suggested that Zorrillo should be entrusted with themission, and the Eletto ordered the quartermaster to prepare fordeparture at once. An hour after the general left the camp with Flora'slover in his train. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

The fifth night after the Eletto's election was closing in, a lightrain was falling, and no sound was heard in the deserted streets of theencampment except now and then the footsteps of a sentinel, or the criesof a child. In Zorrillo's tent, which was usually brightly lighted untila late hour of the night, only one miserable brand was burning, besidewhich sat the sleepy bar-maid, darning a hole in her frieze-jacket. Thegirl did not expect any one, and started when the door of the tent wasviolently torn open, and her master, followed by two newly-appointedcaptains, came straight up to her. 

Zorrillo held his hat in his hand, his hair, slightly tinged with grey, hung in a tangled mass over his forehead, but he carried himself aserect as ever. His body did not move, but his eyes wandered from onecorner of the tent to another, and the girl crossed herself and heldup two fingers towards him, for his dark glance fell upon her, as he atlast exclaimed, in a hollow tone:

"Where is the mistress?"

"Gone, I could not help it" replied the girl. 

"Where?"

"To the Eletto, to Navarrete. "

"When?"

"He came and took her and the child, directly after you had left thecamp. "

"And she has not returned?"

"She has just sent a roast chicken, which I was to keep for you whenyou came home. There it is. " Zorrillo laughed. Then he turned to hiscompanions, saying:

"I thank you. You have now. . . . Is she still with the Eletto?"

"Why, of course. "

"And who--who saw her the night before the election--let me sitdown--who saw her with him then?"

"My brother, " replied one of the captains. "She was just coming out ofthe tent, as he passed with the guard. "

"Don't take the matter to heart, " said the other. "There are plenty ofwomen! We are growing old, and can no longer cope with a handsome fellowlike Navarrete. "

"I thought the sibyl was more sensible, " added the younger captain. "Isaw her in Naples sixteen years ago. Zounds, she was a beautiful womanthen! A pretty creature even now; but Navarrete might almost be herson. And you always treated her kindly, Pasquale. Well, whoever expectsgratitude from women. . . . "

Suddenly the quartermaster remembered the hour just before the election, when Florette had thrown herself upon his breast, and thanked him forhis kindness; clenching his teeth, he groaned aloud. 

The others were about to leave him, but he regained his self-control, and said:

"Take him the count's letter, Renato. What I have to say to him, I willdetermine later. "

Zorrillo was a long time unlacing his jerkin and taking out the paper. Both of his companions noticed how his fingers trembled, and looked ateach other compassionately; but the older one said, as he received theletter:

"Man, man, this will do no good. Women are like good fortune. "

"Take the thing as a thousand others have taken it, and don't come toblows. You wield a good blade, but to attack Navarrete is suicide. I'lltake him the letter. Be wise, Zorrillo, and look for another love atonce. "

"Directly, directly, of course, " replied the quartermaster; but as soonas he had sent the maid-servant away, and was entirely alone, he bowedhis forehead upon the table and his shoulders heaved convulsively. Heremained in this attitude a long time, then paced to and fro with forcedcalmness. Morning dawned long ere he sought his couch. 

Early the next day he made his report to the Eletto before the assembledcouncil of war, and when it broke up, approached Navarrete, saying, inso loud a tone that no one could fail to hear:

"I congratulate you on your new sweetheart. "

"With good reason, " replied the Eletto. "Wait a little while, and I'llwager that you'll congratulate me more sincerely than you do to-day. "

The offers from Brussels had again proved unacceptable. It was necessarynow to act, and the insurgent commander profited by the time at hisdisposal. It seemed as if "power" doubled his elasticity and energy. Itwas so delightful, after the march, the council of war, and the day'swork were over, to rest with his mother, listen to her, and open his ownheart. How had she preserved--yes, he might call it so--her aristocraticbearing, amid the turmoil, perils, and mire of camp-life, in spite ofall, all! How cleverly and entertainingly she could talk about men andthings, how comical the ideas, with which she understood how to spicethe conversation, and how well versed he found her in everything thatrelated to the situation of the regiments and his own position. She hadnot been the confidante of army leaders in vain. 

By her advice he relinquished his plan of capturing Mechlin, afterlearning from spies that it was prepared and expecting the attack of theinsurgents. 

He could not enter upon a long siege with the means at his command;his first blow must not miss the mark. So he only showed himself nearBrussels, sent Captain Montesdocca, who tried to parley again, back withhis mission unaccomplished, marched in a new direction to mislead hisfoes, and then unexpectedly assailed wealthy Aalst in Flanders. 

The surprised inhabitants tried to defend their well-fortified city, butthe citizens' strength could not withstand the furious assault of thewell-drilled, booty-seeking army. 

The conquered city belonged to the king. It was the pledge of what therebels required, and they indemnified themselves in it for the pay thathad been with held. All who attempted to offer resistance fell by thesword, all the citizens' possessions were seized by the soldiers, as thewages that belonged to them. 

In the shops under the Belfry, the great tower from whence the bellsummoned the inhabitants when danger threatened, lay plenty of cloth fornew doublets. Nor was there any lack of gold or silver in the treasuryof the guild-hall, the strong boxes of the merchants, the chests of thecitizens. The silver table-utensils, the gold ornaments of the women, the children's gifts from godparents fell into the hands of theconquerors, while a hundred and seventy rich villages near Aalst werecompelled to furnish food for the mutineers. 

Navarrete did not forbid the plundering. According to his opinion, whatsoldiers took by assault was well-earned booty. To him the occupation ofAalst was an act of righteous self-defence, and the regiments shared hisbelief, and were pleased with their Eletto. 

The rebels sought and found quarters in the citizens' houses, slept intheir beds, eat from their dishes, and drank their wine-cellars empty. Pillage was permitted for three days. On the fifth discipline wasrestored, the quartermaster's department organized, and the citizenswere permitted to assemble at the guild-hall, pursue their trades andbusiness, follow the pursuits to which they had been accustomed. Theproperty they had saved was declared unassailable; besides, robbery hadceased to be very remunerative. 

The Eletto was at liberty to choose his own quarters, and there was nolack of stately dwellings in Aalst. Ulrich might have been tempted tooccupy the palace of Baron de Hierges, but passed it by, selecting asa home for his mother and himself a pretty little house on themarket-place, which reminded him of his father's smithy. Thebow-windowed room, with the view of the belfry and the statelyguildhall, was pleasantly fitted up for his mother, and the citygardeners received orders to send the finest house-plants to hisresidence. Soon the sitting-room, adorned with flowers and enlivened bysinging-birds, looked far handsomer and more cosy than the nest of whichhe had dreamed. A little white dog, exactly like the one Florette hadpossessed in the smithy, was also procured, and when in the evening thewarm summer air floated into the open windows, and Ulrich sat alonewith Florette, recalling memories of the past, or making plans for thefuture, it seemed as if a new spring had come to his soul. The citizens'distress did not trouble him. They were the losing party in the grimgame of war, enemies--rebels. Among his own men he saw nothing butjoyous faces; he exercised the power--they obeyed. 

Zorrillo bore him ill-will, Ulrich read it in his eyes; but he made hima captain, and the man performed his duty as quartermaster in the mostexemplary manner. Florette wished to tell him that the Eletto was herson, but the latter begged her to wait till his power was more firmlyestablished, and how could she refuse her darling anything? She hadgrieved deeply, very deeply, but this mood soon passed away, and now shecould be happy in Ulrich's society, and forget sorrow and heartache. 

What joy it was to have him back, to be loved by him! Where was therea more affectionate son, a pleasanter home than hers? The velvet andbrocade dresses belonging to the Baroness de Hierges had fallen to theEletto. How young Florette looked in them! When she glanced into themirror, she was astonished at herself. 

Two beautiful riding-horses for ladies' use and elegant trappings hadbeen found in the baron's stable. Ulrich had told her of it, and thedesire to ride with him instantly arose in her mind. She had alwaysaccompanied Grandgagnage, and when she now went out, attired in a longvelvet riding-habit, with floating plumes in her dainty little hat, beside her son, she soon noticed how admiringly even the hostilecitizens and their wives looked after them. It was a pretty sight tobehold the handsome soldier, full of pride and power, galloping on themost spirited stallion, beside the beautiful, white-haired woman, whoseeyes sparkled with vivacious light. 

Zorrillo often met them, when they passed the guildhall, and Florettealways gave him a friendly greeting with her whip, but he intentionallyaverted his eyes or if he could not avoid it, coldly returned herrecognition. 

This wounded her deeply, and when alone, it often happened that she sunkinto gloomy reverie and, with an aged, weary face, gazed fixedly at thefloor. But Ulrich's approach quickly cheered and rejuvenated her. 

Florette now knew what her son had experienced in life, what had movedhis heart, his soul, and could not contradict him, when he told her thatpower was the highest prize of existence. 

The Eletto's ambitious mind could not be satisfied with little Aalst. The mutineers had been outlawed by an edict from Brussels, but the kinghad nothing to do with this measure; the shameful proclamation was onlyintended to stop the wailing of the Netherlanders. They would have topay dearly for it! There was a great scheme in view. 

The Antwerp of those days was called "as rich as the Indies;" theproject under consideration was the possibility of manoeuvring thisabode of wealth into the hands of the mutineers; the whole Spanish armyin the Netherlands being about to follow the example of the regiments inAalst. 

The mother was the friend and counsellor of the son. At every step hetook he heard her opinion, and often yielded his own in its favor. Thisinterest in the direction of great events occupied the sibyl's versatilemind. When, on many occasions, pros and tons were equal in weight, shebrought out the cards, and this oracle generally turned the scale. 

No high aim, no desire to accomplish good and great things in widerspheres, influenced the thoughts and actions of this couple. 

What cared they, that the weal and woe of thousands depended on theirdecision? The deadly weapon in their bands was to them only a valuableutensil in which they delighted, and with which fruits were plucked fromthe trees. 

Ulrich now saw the fulfilment of Don Juan's words, that power was anarable field; for there were many full ears in Aalst for them both toharvest. 

Florette still nursed, with maternal care, the soldier's orphan whichshe had taken to her son's house; the child, born on a bed of straw--wasnow clothed in dainty linen, laces and other beautiful finery. It wasnecessary to her, for she occupied herself with the helpless littlecreature when, during the long morning hours of Ulrich's absence, sorrowful thought troubled her too deeply. 

Ulrich often remained absent a long time, far longer than the servicerequired. What was he doing? Visiting a sweetheart? Why not? She onlymarvelled that the fair women did not come from far and near to see thehandsome man. 

Yes, the Eletto had found an old love. Art, which he had sullenlyforsaken. News had reached his ears, that an artist had fallen in thedefence of the city. He went to the dead man's house to see his works, and how did he find the painter's dwelling! Windows, furniture wereshattered, the broken doors of the cupboards hung into the rooms ontheir bent hinges. The widow and her children were lying in the studioon a heap of straw. This touched his heart, and he gave alms with anopen hand to the sorrowing woman. A few pictures of the saints, whichthe Spaniards had spared, hung on the walls; the easel, paints andbrushes had been left untouched. 

A thought, which he instantly carried into execution, entered his mind. He would paint a new standard! How his heart beat, when he again stoodbefore the easel!

He regarded the heretics as heathens. The Spaniards were shortly goingto fight against them and for the faith. So he painted the Saviour onone side of the standard, the Virgin on the other. The artist's widowsat to him for the Madonna, a young soldier for the Christ. 

No scruples, no consideration for the criticisms of teachers now checkedhis creating hand; the power was his, and whatever he did must be right. 

He placed upon the Saviour's bowed figure, Costa's head, as he hadpainted it in Titian's studio, and the Madonna, in defiance of the sternjudges in Madrid, received the sibyl's face, to please himself and dohonor to his mother. He made her younger, transformed her white hair togleaming golden tresses. One day he asked Flora to sit still and thinkof something very serious; he wanted to sketch her. 

She gaily placed herself in position, saying:

"Be quick, for serious thoughts don't last long with me. "

A few days later both pictures were finished, and possessed no meandegree of merit; he rejoiced that after the long interval he couldstill accomplish something. His mother was delighted with her son'smasterpieces, especially the Madonna, for she instantly recognizedherself, and was touched by this proof of his faithful remembrance. Shehad looked exactly like it when a young girl, she said; it was strangehow precisely he had hit the color of her hair; but she was afraid itwas blaspheming to paint a Madonna with her face; she was a poor sinner, nothing more. 

Florette was glad that the work was finished, for restlessness againbegan to torture her, and the mornings had been so lonely. Zorrillo--itcaused her bitter pain--had not cast even a single glance at her, andshe began to miss the society of men, to which she had been accustomed. But she never complained, and always showed Ulrich the same cheerfulface, until the latter told her one day that he must leave her for sometime. 

He had already defeated in little skirmishes small bodies of peasantsand citizens, who had taken the field against the mutineers; now ColonelRomero called upon him to help oppose a large army of patriots, who hadassembled between Lowen and Tirlemont, under the command of the nobleSieur de Floyon. It was said to consist Of students and other rebelliousbrawlers, and so it proved; but the "rebels" were the flower of theyouth of the shamefully-oppressed nation, noble souls, who found itunbearable to see their native land enslaved by mutinous hordes. 

Ulrich's parting with his mother was not a hard one. He felt sure ofvictory and of returning home, but the excitable woman burst into tearsas she bade him farewell. 

The Eletto took the field with a large body of troops; the majority ofthe mutineers, with them. Captain and Quartermaster Zorrillo, remainedbehind to hold the citizens in check. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A considerable, but hastily-collected army of patriots had been utterlyrouted at Tisnacq by a small force of disciplined Spaniards. 

Ulrich had assisted his countrymen to gain the speedy victory, andhad been greeted by his old colonel, the brave Romero, the boldcavalry-commander, Mendoza, and other distinguished officers as one ofthemselves. Since these aristocrats had become mutineers, the Elettowas a brother, and they did not disdain to secure his cooperation in theattack they were planning upon Antwerp. 

He had shown great courage under fire, and wherever he appeared, hiscountrymen held out their hands to him, vowing obedience and loyaltyunto death. 

Ulrich felt as if he were walking on air, mere existence was a joy tohim. No prince could revel in the blissful consciousness of increasingpower, more fully than he. The evening after the decision he hadattended a splendid banquet with Romero, Vargas, Mendoza, Tassis, andthe next morning the prisoners, who had fallen into the hands of hismen, were brought before him. 

He had left the examination of the students, citizens' sons, andpeasants to his lieutenant; but there were also three noblemen, fromwhom large ransoms could be obtained. The two older ones had grantedwhat he asked and been led away; the third, a tall man in knightlyarmor, was left last. 

Ulrich had personally encountered the latter. The prisoner, mounted upona tall steed, had pressed him very closely; nay, the Eletto's victorywas not decided, until a musket-shot had stretched the other's horse onthe ground. 

The knight now carried his arm in a sling. In the centre of his coat ofmail and on the shoulder-pieces of his armor, the ensigns armorial of anoble family were embossed. 

"You were dragged out from under your horse, " said the Eletto to theknight. "You wield an excellent blade. "

He had spoken in Spanish, but the other shrugged his shoulders, andanswered in the German language "I don't understand Spanish. "

"Are you a German?" Ulrich now asked in his native tongue. "How do youhappen to be among the Netherland rebels?"

The nobleman looked at the Eletto in surprise. But the latter, givinghim no time for reflection, continued "I understand German; youranswer?"

"I had business in Antwerp?"

"What business?"

"That is my affair. "

"Very well. Then we will drop courtesy and adopt a different tone. "

"Nay, I am the vanquished party, and will answer you. "

"Well then?"

"I had stuffs to buy. "

"Are you a merchant?"

The knight shook his head and answered, smiling: "We have rebuilt ourcastle since the fire. "

"And now you need hangings and artistic stuff. Did you expect to capturethem from us?"

"Scarcely, sir. "

"Then what brought you among our enemies?"

"Baron Floyon belongs to my mother's family. He marched against you, andas I approved his cause. . . . "

"And pillage pleases you, you felt disposed to break a lance. "

"Quite right. "

"And you have done your cause no harm. Where do you live?"

"Surely you know: in Germany. "

"Germany is a very large country. "

"In the Black Forest in Swabia. "

"And your name?"

The prisoner made no reply; but Ulrich fixed his eyes upon the coat ofarms on the knight's armor, looked at him more steadily, and a strangesmile hovered around his lips as he approached him, saying in an alteredtone: "You think the Navarrete will demand from Count von Frohlinger aransom as large as his fields and forests?"

"You know me?"

"Perhaps so, Count Lips. "

"By Heavens!"

"Ah, ha, you went from the monastery to the field. "

"From the monastery? How do you know that, sir?"

"We are old acquaintances, Count Lips. Look me in the eyes. "

The other gazed keenly at the Eletto, shook his head, and said: "Youhave not seemed a total stranger to me from the first; but I never wasin Spain. "

"But I have been in Swabia, and at that time you did me a kindness. Would your ransom be large enough to cover the cost of a broken churchwindow?"

The count opened his eyes in amazement and a bright smile flashed overhis face as, clapping his hands, he exclaimed with sincere delight:

"You, you--you are Ulrich! I'll be damned, if I'm mistaken! But who thedevil would discover a child of the Black Forest in the Spanish Eletto?"

"That I am one, must remain a secret between us for the present, "exclaimed Ulrich, extending his hand to the count. "Keep silence, andyou will be free--the window will cover the ransom!"

"Holy Virgin! If all the windows in the monastery were as dear, themonks might grow fat!" cried the count. "A Swabian heart remains halfSwabian, even when it beats under a Spanish doublet. Its luck, Turk'sluck, that I followed Floyon;--and your old father, Adam? And Ruth--whata pleasure!"

"You ought to know. . . My father is dead, died long, long ago!" saidUlrich, lowering his eyes. 

"Dead!" exclaimed the other. "And long ago? I saw him at the anvil threeweeks since. "

"My father? At the anvil? And Ruth?. . . " stammered Ulrich, gazing at theother with a pallid, questioning face. 

"They are alive, certainly they are alive! I met him again in Antwerp. No one else can make you such armor. The devil is in it, if you hav'ntheard of the Swabian armorer. "

"The Swabian--the Swabian--is he my father?"

"Your own father. How long ago is it? Thirteen years, for I was thensixteen. That was the last time I saw him, and yet I recognized him atthe first glance. True, I shall never forget the hour, when the dumbwoman drew the arrow from the Jew's breast. The scene I witnessed thatday in the forest still rises before my eyes, as if it were happeningnow. "

"He lives, they did not kill him!" exclaimed the Eletto, now firstbeginning to rejoice over the surprising news. "Lips, man--Philipp!I have found my mother again, and now my father too. Wait, wait! I'llspeak to the lieutenant, he must take my place, and you and I will rideto Lier; there you will tell me the whole story. Holy Virgin! thanks, athousand thanks! I shall see my father again, my father!"

It was past midnight, but the schoolmates were still sitting over theirwine in a private room in the Lion at Lier. The Eletto had not grownweary of questioning, and Count Philipp willingly answered. 

Ulrich now knew what death the doctor had met, and that his father hadgone to Antwerp and lived there as an armorer for twelve years. TheJew's dumb wife had died of grief on the journey, but Ruth was livingwith the old man and kept house for him. Navarrete had often heard theSwabian and his work praised, and wore a corselet from his workshop. 

The count could tell him a great deal about Ruth. He acknowledged thathe had not sought Adam the Swabian for weapons, but on account of hisbeautiful daughter. The girl was slender as a fir-tree! And her face!once seen could never be forgotten. So might have looked the beautifulJudith, who slew Holophernes, or Queen Zenobia, or chaste Lucretia ofRome! She was now past twenty and in the bloom of her beauty, but coldas glass; and though she liked him on account of his old friendship forUlrich and the affair in the forest, he was only permitted to look at, not touch her. She would rejoice when she heard that Ulrich was stillalive, and what he had become. And the smith, the smith! Nay, he wouldnot go home now, but back to Antwerp to be Ulrich's messenger! But nowhe too would like to relate his own experiences. 

He did so, but in a rapid, superficial way, for the Eletto constantlyreverted to old days and his father. Every person whom they had bothknown was enquired for. 

Old Count Frohlinger was still alive, but suffered a great deal fromgout and the capricious young wife he had married in his old age. Hangemarx had grown melancholy and, after all, ended his life bythe rope, though by his own hand. Dark-skinned Xaver had entered thepriesthood and was living in Rome in high esteem, as a member of aSpanish order. The abbot still presided over the monastery and had agreat deal of time for his studies; for the school had been broken upand, as part of the property of the monastery had been confiscated, thenumber of monks had diminished. The magistrate had been falsely accusedof embezzling minors' money, remained in prison for a year and, afterhis liberation, died of a liver complaint. 

Morning was dawning when the friends separated. Count Philipp undertookto tell Ruth that Ulrich had found his mother again. She was to persuadethe smith to forgive his wife, with whose praises her son's lips wereoverflowing. 

At his departure Philipp tried to induce the Eletto to change his coursebetimes, for he was following a dangerous path; but Ulrich laughed inhis face, exclaiming: "You know I have found the right word, and shalluse it to the end. You were born to power in a small way; I have wonmine myself, and shall not rest until I am permitted to exercise it ona great scale, nay, the grandest. If aught on earth affords a taste ofheavenly joy, it is power!"

In the camp the Eletto found the troops from Aalst prepared fordeparture, and as he rode along the road saw in imagination, sometimeshis parents, his parents in a new and happy union, sometimes Ruth in thefull splendor of her majestic beauty. He remembered how proudly he hadwatched his father and mother, when they went to church together onSunday, how he had carried Ruth in his arms on their flight; and now hewas to see and experience all this again. 

He gave his men only a short rest, for he longed to reach his mother. It was a glorious return home, to bring such tidings! How beautiful andcharming he found life; how greatly he praised his destiny!

The sun was setting behind pleasant Aalst as he approached, and the skylooked as if it was strewn with roses. 

"Beautiful, beautiful!" he murmured, pointing out to his lieutenant thebrilliant hues in the western horizon. 

A messenger hastened on in advance, the thunder of artillery and fanfareof music greeted the victors, as they marched through the gate. Ulrichsprang from his horse in front of the guildhall and was received by thecaptain, who had commanded during his absence. 

The Eletto hastily described the course of the brilliant, victoriousmarch, and then asked what had happened. 

The captain lowered his eyes in embarrassment, saying, in a low tone:"Nothing of great importance; but day before yesterday a wicked deed wascommitted, which will vex you. The woman you love, the camp sibyl. . . . "

"Who? What? What do you mean?"

"She went to Zorrillo, and he--you must not be startled--he stabbedher. "

Ulrich staggered back, repeating, in a hollow tone "Stabbed!" Thenseizing the other by the shoulder, he shrieked: "Stabbed! That meansmurdered-killed!"

"He thrust his dagger into her heart, she must have died as quickly asif struck by lightning. Then Zorrillo went away, God knows where. Whocould suspect, that the quiet man. . . . "

"You let him escape, helped the murderer get off, you dogs!" raved thewretched man. "We will speak of this again. Where is she, where is herbody?"

The captain shrugged his shoulders, saying, in a soothing tone: "Calmyourself, Navarrete! We too grieve for the sibyl; many in the camp willmiss her. As for Zorrillo, he had the password, and could go through thegate at any hour. The body is still lying in his quarters. "

"Indeed!" faltered the Eletto. Then calming himself, he said, mournfully: "I wish to see her. "

The captain walked silently by his side and opened the murderer'sdwelling. 

There, on a bed of pine-shavings, in a rude coffin made of rough planks, lay the woman who had given him birth, deserted him, and yet who sotenderly loved him. A poor soldier's wife, to whom she had been kind, was watching beside the corpse, at whose head a singly brand burned witha smoky, yellow light. The little white dog had found its way to her, and was snuffing the floor, still red with its mistress's blood. 

Ulrich snatched the brand from the bracket, and threw the light on thedead woman's face. His tear-dimmed eyes sought his mother's features, but only rested on them a moment--then he shuddered, turned away, andgiving the torch to his companion, said, softly: "Cover her head. "

The soldier's wife spread her coarse apron over the face, which-hadsmiled so sweetly: but Ulrich threw himself on his knees beside thecoffin, buried his face, and remained in this attitude for many minutes. 

At last he slowly rose, rubbed his eyes as if waking from some confuseddream, drew himself up proudly, and scanned the place with searchingeyes. 

He was the Eletto, and thus men honored the woman who was dear to him!

His mother lay in a wretched pauper's coffin, a ragged camp-followerwatched beside her--no candles burned at her head, no priest prayed forthe salvation of her soul!

Grief was raging madly in his breast, now indignation joined this gloomyguest; giving vent to his passionate emotion, Ulrich wildly exclaimed:

"Look here, captain! This corpse, this woman--proclaim it to everyone--the sibyl was my mother yes, yes, my own mother! I demand respectfor her, the same respect that is shown myself! Must I compel men torender her fitting honor? Here, bring torches. Prepare the catafalque inSt. Martin's church, and place it before the altar! Put candles aroundit, as many as can be found! It is still early! Lieutenant! I am gladyou are there! Rouse the cathedral priests and go to the bishop. Icommand a solemn requiem for my mother! Everything is to be arrangedprecisely as it was at the funeral of the Duchess of Aerschot! Lettrumpets give the signal for assembling. Order the bells to be rung! Inan hour all must be ready at St. Martin's cathedral! Bring torches here, I say! Have I the right to command--yes or no? A large oak coffin wasstanding at the joiner's close by. Bring it here, here; I need a betterdeath-couch for my mother. You poor, dear woman, how you loved flowers, and no one has brought you even one! Captain Ortis, I have issued mycommands! Everything must be done, when I return;--Lieutenant, you haveyour orders!"

He rushed from the death-chamber to the sitting-room in his own house, and hastily tore stalks and blossoms from the plants. The maid-servantswatched him timidly, and he harshly ordered them to collect what he hadgathered and take them to the house of death. 

His orders were obeyed, and when he next appeared at Zorrillo'squarters, the soldiers, who had assembled there in throngs, parted tomake way for him. 

He beckoned to them, and while he went from one to another, saying: "Thesibyl was my mother--Zorrillo has murdered my mother, " the coffin wasborne into the house. 

In the vestibule, he leaned his head against the wall, moaning andsighing, until Florette was laid in her last bed, and a soldier put hishand on his shoulder. Then Ulrich strewed flowers over the corpse, andthe joiner came to nail up the coffin. The blows of the hammer actuallyhurt him, it seemed as if each one fell upon his own heart. 

The funeral procession passed through the ranks of soldiers, whofilled the street. Several officers came to meet it, and CaptainOrtis, approaching close to the Eletto, said: "The bishop refuses thecatafalque and the solemn requiem you requested. Your mother died insin, without the sacrament. He will grant as many masses for the reposeof her soul as you desire, but such high honors. . . . "

"He refuses them to us?"

"Not to us, to the sibyl. "

"She was my mother, your Eletto's mother. To the cathedral, forward!"

"It is closed, and will remain so to-day, for the bishop. . . . "

"Then burst the doors! We'll show them who has the power here. "

"Are you out of your senses? The Holy Church!"

"Forward, I say! Let him who is no cowardly wight, follow me!"

Ulrich drew the commander's baton from his belt and rushed forward, asif he were leading a storming-party; but Ortis cried: "We will not fightagainst St. Martin!" and a murmur of applause greeted him. 

Ulrich checked his pace, and gnashing his teeth, exclaimed: "Will not?Will not?" Then gazing around the circle of comrades, who surroundedhim on all sides, he asked: "Has no one courage to help me to my rights?Ortis, de Vego, Diego, will you follow me, yes or no?"

"No, not against the Church!"

"Then I command you, " shouted the Eletto, furiously. "Obey, Lieutenantde Vega, forward with your company, and burst the cathedral doors. "

But no one obeyed, and Ortis ordered: "Back, every man of you! SaintMartin is my patron saint; let all who value their souls refuse toattack the church and defend it with me. "

The blood rushed to Ulrich's brain, and incapable of longerself-control, he threw his baton into the ranks of the mutineers, shrieking: "I hurl it at your feet; whoever picks it up can keep it!"

The soldiers hesitated; but Ortis repeated his "Back!" Other officersgave the same order, and their men obeyed. The street grew empty, andthe Eletto's mother was only followed by a few of her son's friends; nopriest led the procession. In the cemetery Ulrich threw three handfulsof earth into the open grave, then with drooping head returned home. 

How dreary, how desolate the bright, flower-decked room seemed now, forthe first time the Eletto felt really deserted. No tears came to relievehis grief, for the insult offered him that day aroused his wrath, and hecherished it as if it were a consolation. 

He had thrown power aside with the staff of command. Power! It too waspotter's trash, which a stone might shatter, a flower in full bloom, whose leaves drop apart if touched by the finger! It was no noble metal, only yellow mica!

The knocker on the door never stopped rapping. One officer after anothercame to soothe him, but he would not even admit his lieutenant. 

He rejoiced over his hasty deed. Fortune, he thought, cannot be escaped, art cannot be thrown aside; fame may be trampled under foot, yet stillpursue us. 

Power has this advantage over all three, it can be flung off like aworn-out doublet. Let it fly! Had he owed it the happiness of the lastfew weeks? No, no! He would have been happy with his mother in a poor, plain house, without the office of Eletto, without flowers, horses orservants. It was to her, not to power, that he was indebted for everyblissful hour, and now that she had gone, how desolate was the void inhis heart!

Suddenly the recollection of his father and Ruth illumined his miserylike a sunbeam. The game of Eletto was now over, he would go to Antwerpthe next day. 

Why had fate snatched his mother from him just now, why did it deny himthe happiness of seeing his parents united? His father--she had sorelywronged him, but for what will not death atone? He must take him someremembrance of her, and went to her room to look through her chest. But it no longer stood in the old place--the owner of the house, a richmatron, who had been compelled to occupy an attic-room, while strangerswere quartered in her residence, had taken charge of the pale orphan andthe boxes after Florette's death. 

The good Netherland dame provided for the adopted child and the propertyof her enemy, the man whose soldiers had pillaged her brothers andcousins. The death of the woman below had moved her deeply, for thewonderful charm of Florette's manner had won her also. 

Towards midnight Ulrich took the lamp and went upstairs. He had longsince forgotten to spare others, by denying himself a wish. 

The knocking at the door and the passing to and fro in the entry hadkept Frau Geel awake. When she heard the Eletto's heavy step, she sprangup from her spinning-wheel in alarm, and the maid-servant, half rousedfrom sleep, threw herself on her knees. 

"Frau Geel!" called a voice outside. 

She recognized Navarrete's tones, opened the door, and asked what hedesired. 

"It was his mother, " thought the old lady as he threw clothes, linenand many a trifle on the floor. "It was his mother. Perhaps he wants herrosary or prayer book. He is her son! They looked like a happy couplewhen they were together. A wild soldier, but he isn't a wicked man yet. "

While he searched she held the light for him, shaking her head over thedisorder among the articles where he rummaged. 

Ulrich had now reached the bottom of the chest. Here he found a valuablenecklace, booty which Zorrillo had given his companion for use in caseof need. This should be Ruth's. Close beside it lay a small package, tied with rose-pink ribbon, containing a tiny infant's shirt, a gaydoll, and a slender gold circlet; her wedding-ring! The date showedthat it had been given to her by his father, and the shirt and doll weremementos of him, her darling--of himself. 

He gazed at them, changing them from one hand to the other, tillsuddenly his heart overflowed, and without heeding Frau Geel, who waswatching him, he wept softly, exclaiming: "Mother, dear mother!"

A light hand touched his shoulder, and a woman's kind voice said: "Poorfellow, poor fellow! Yes, she was a dear little thing, and a mother, amother--that is enough!"

The Eletto nodded assent with tearful eyes, and when she again gentlyrepeated in a tone of sincere sympathy, her "poor fellow!" it soundedsweeter, than the loudest homage that had ever been offered to his fameand power. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

The next morning while Ulrich was packing his luggage, assisted by hisservant, the sound of drums and fifes, bursts of military music and loudcheers were heard in the street, and going to the window, he saw thewhole body of mutineers drawn up in the best order. 

The companies stood in close ranks before his house, impetuous shoutsand bursts of music made the windows rattle, and now the officerspressed into his room, holding out their swords, vowing fealty untodeath, and entreating him to remain their commander. 

He now perceived, that power cannot be thrown aside like a worthlessthing. His tortured heart was stirred with deep emotion, and thedrooping wings of ambition unfolded with fresh energy. He reproached, raged, but yielded; and when Ortis on his knees, offered him thecommander's baton, he accepted it. 

Ulrich was again Eletto, but this need not prevent his seeing his fatherand Ruth once more, so he declared that he would retain his office, but should be obliged to ride to Antwerp that day, secretly informthe officers of the conspiracy against the city, and the necessity ofnegotiating with the commandant, that their share of the rich prizemight not be lost. 

What many had suspected and hoped was now to become reality. TheirEletto was no idle man! When Navarrete appeared at noon in front of thetroops with his own work, the standard, in his hand, he was receivedwith shouts of joy, and no one murmured, though many recognized in theMadonna's countenance the features of the murdered sibyl. 

Two days later Ulrich, full of eager expectation, rode into Antwerp, carrying in his portmanteau the mementos he had taken from his mother'schest, while in imagination he beheld his father's face, the smithyat Richtberg, the green forest, the mountains of his home, the Costas'house, and his little playfellow. Would he really be permitted to leanon his father's broad breast once more?

And Ruth, Ruth! Did she still care for him, had Philipp described hercorrectly?

He went to the count without delay, and found him at home. Philippreceived him cordially, yet with evident timidity and embarrassment. Ulrich too was grave, for he had to inform his companion of his mother'sdeath. 

"So that is settled, " said the count. "Your father is a gnarled oldtree, a real obstinate Swabian. It's not his way to forgive and forget. "

"And did he know that my mother was so near to him, that she was inAalst. "

"All, all!"

"He will forgive the dead. Surely, surely he will, if I beseech him, when we are united, if I tell him. . . . "

"Poor fellow! You think all this is so easy. --It is long since I havehad so hard a task, yet I must speak plainly. He will have nothing to dowith you, either. "

"Nothing to do with me?" cried Ulrich. 

"Is he out of his senses? What sin have I committed, what does he. . . . "

"He knows that you are Navarrete, the Eletto of Herenthals, theconqueror of Aalst, and therefore. . . . "

"Therefore?"

"Why of course. You see, Ulrich, when a man becomes famous like you, heis known for a long distance, everything he does makes a great hue andcry, and echo repeats it in every alley. "

"To my honor before God and man. "

"Before God? Perhaps so; certainly before the Spaniards. As for me--Iwas with the squadron myself, I call you a brave soldier; but--nooffence--you have behaved ill in this country. The Netherlanders arehuman beings too. "

"They are rebels, recreant heretics. "

"Take care, or you will revile your own father. His faith has beenshaken. A preacher, whom he met on his flight here, in some tavern, ledhim astray by inducing him to read the bible. Many things the Churchcondemns are sacred to him. He thinks the Netherlanders a free, noblenation. Your King Philip he considers a tyrant, oppressor, and ruthlessdestroyer. You who have served him and Alba--are in his eyes; but I willnot wound you. . . . "

"What are we, I will hear. "

"No, no, it would do no good. In short, to Adam the Spanish army is abloody pest, nothing more. "

"There never were braver soldiers. "

"Very true; but every defeat, all the blood you have shed, has angeredhim and this nation, and wrath, which daily receives fresh food and towhich men become accustomed, at last turns to hate. All great crimescommitted in this war are associated with Alba's name, many smaller oneswith yours, and so your father. . . . "

"Then we will teach him a better opinion! I return to him an honestsoldier, the commander of thousands of men! To see him once more, onlyto see him! A son remains a son! I learned that from my mother. We wererivals and enemies, when I met her! And then, then--alas, that is allover! Now I wish to find in my father what I have lost; will you go tothe smithy with me?"

"No, Ulrich, no. I have said everything to your father that can be urgedin your defence, but he is so devoured with rage. . . . "

"Santiago!" exclaimed the Eletto, bursting into sudden fury, "I need noadvocate! If the old man knows what share I have taken in this war, somuch the better. I'll fill up the gaps myself. I have been wherever thefight raged hottest! 'Sdeath! that is my pride! I am no longer a boy andhave fought my way through life without father or mother. What I am, I have made myself, and can defend with honor, even to the old man. He carries heavy guns, I know; but I am not accustomed to shoot withfeather balls!"

"Ulrich, Ulrich! He is an old man, and your father!"

"I will remember that, as soon as he calls me his son. "

One of the count's servants showed Ulrich the way to the smith's house. 

Adam had entirely given up the business of horseshoeing, for nothingwas to be seen in the ground floor of the high, narrow house, exceptthe large door, and a window on each side. Behind the closed one atthe right were several pieces of armor, beautifully embossed, and someartistically-wrought iron articles. The left-hand one was partly open, granting entrance to the autumn sunshine. Ulrich dismissed the servant, took the mementos of his mother in his hand, and listened to thehammer-strokes, that echoed from within. 

The familiar sound recalled pleasant memories of his childhood andcooled his hot blood. Count Philipp was right. His father was an oldman, and entitled to demand respect from his son. He must endure fromhim what he would tolerate from no one else. Nay, he again felt that itwas a great happiness to be near the beloved one, from whom he hadso long been parted; whatever separated him from his old father, mustsurely vanish into nothing, as soon as they looked into each other'seyes. 

What a master in his trade, his father still was! No one else would havefound it so easy to forge the steel coat of mail with the Medusa headin the centre. He was not working alone here as he did at Richtberg; forUlrich heard more than one hammer striking iron in the workshop. 

Before touching the knocker, he looked into the open window. 

A woman's tall figure was standing at the desk. Her back was turned, andhe saw only the round outline of the head, the long black braids, theplain dress, bordered with velvet, and the lace in the neck. An elderlyman in the costume of a merchant was just holding out his hand infarewell, and he heard him say: "You've bought too cheap again, far toocheap, Jungfer Ruth. "

"Just a fair price, " she answered quietly. "You will have a goodprofit, and we can afford to pay it. I shall expect the iron day afterto-morrow. "

"It will be delivered before noon. Master Adam has a treasure in you, dear Jungfer. If my son were alive, I know where he would seek a wife. Wilhelm Ykens has told me of his troubles; he is a skilful goldsmith. Why do you give the poor fellow no hope? Consider! You are past twenty, and every year it grows harder to say yes to a lover. "

"Nothing suits me better, than to stay with father, " she answered gaily. "He can't do without me, you know, nor I without him. I have no disliketo Wilhelm, but it seems very easy to live without him. Farewell, FatherKeulitz. "

Ulrich withdrew from the window, until the merchant had vanished downa side street; then he again glanced into the narrow room. Ruth was nowseated at the desk, but instead of looking over the open account book, her eyes were gazing dreamily into vacancy, and the Eletto now saw herbeautiful, calm, noble face. He did not disturb her, for it seemed as ifhe could never weary of comparing her features with the fadeless imagehis memory had treasured during all the vicissitudes of life. 

Never, not even in Italy, had he beheld a nobler countenance. Philippwas right. There was something royal in her bearing. This was the wifeof his dreams, the proud woman, with whom the Eletto desired to sharepower and grandeur. And he had already held her once in his arms! Itseemed as if it were only yesterday. His heart throbbed higher andhigher. As she now rose and thoughtfully approached the window, he couldno longer contain himself, and exclaimed in a low tone: "Ruth, Ruth! Doyou know me, girl? It is I--Ulrich!"

She shrank back, putting out her hands with a repellent gesture; butonly for a moment. Then, struggling to maintain her composure, shejoyously uttered his name, and as he rushed into the room, cried"Ulrich!" "Ulrich!" and no longer able to control her feelings, sufferedhim to clasp her to his heart. 

She had daily expected him with ardent longing, yet secret dread: for hewas the fierce Eletto, the commander of the insurgents, the bloody foeof the brave nation she loved. But at sight of his face all, all wasforgotten, and she felt nothing but the bliss of being reunited to himwhom she had never, never forgotten, the joy of seeing, feeling that heloved her. 

His heart too was overflowing with passionate delight. Faltering tenderwords, he drew her head to his breast, then raised it to press his mouthto her pure lips. But her intoxication of joy passed away--and beforehe could prevent it, she had escaped from his arms, saying sternly: "Notthat, not that. . . . Many a crime lies between us and you. "

"No, no!" he eagerly exclaimed. "Are you not near me? Your heart andmine have belonged to each other since that day in the snow. If myfather is angry because I serve other masters than his, you, yes you, must reconcile us again. I could stay in Aalst no longer. "

"With the mutineers?" she asked sadly. "Ulrich, Ulrich, that you shouldreturn to us thus!"

He again seized her hand, and when she tried to withdraw it, onlysmiled, saying with the confidence of a man, who is sure of his cause:

"Cast aside this foolish reserve. To-morrow you will freely give me, notonly one hand, but both. I am not so bad as you think. The fortune ofwar flung me under the Spanish flag, and 'whose bread I eat, his song Ising, ' says the soldier. What would you have? I served with honor, andhave done some doughty deeds; let that content you. "

This angered Ruth, who resolutely exclaimed:

"No, a thousand times no! You are the Eletto of Aalst, the pillager ofcities, and this cannot be swept aside as easily as the dust from thefloor. I. . . I am only a feeble girl;--but father, he will never give hishand to the blood-stained man in Spanish garb! I know him, I know it. "

Ulrich's breath came quicker; but he repressed the angry emotion andreplied, first reproachfully, then beseechingly:

"You are the old man's echo. What does he know of military honor andwarlike fame; but you, Ruth, must understand me. Do you still rememberour sport with the 'word, ' the great word that accomplished everything?I have found it; and you shall enjoy with me what it procures. Firsthelp me appease my father; I shall succeed, if you aid me. It willdoubtless be a hard task. He could not bring himself to forgive his poorwife--Count Philipp says so;--but now! You see, Ruth, my mother dieda few days ago; she was a dear, loving woman and might have deserved abetter fate. 

"I am alone again now, and long for love--so ardently, so sincerely, more than I can tell you. Where shall I find it, if not with you and myown father? You have always cared for me; you betray it, and after allyou know I am not a bad man, do you not? Be content with my love andtake me to my father, yourself. Help me persuade him to listen to me. Ihave something here which you can give him from me; you will see that itwill soften his heart!"

"Then give it to me, " replied Ruth, "but whatever it may be--believeme, Ulrich, so long as you command the Spanish mutineers, he will remainhard, hard as his own iron!"

"Spaniards! Mutineers! Nonsense! Whoever wishes to love, can love; therest may be settled afterwards. You don't know how high my heart throbs, now that I am near you, now that I see and hear you. You are my goodangel and must remain so, now look here. This is my mother's legacy. This little shirt I once wore, when I was a tiny thing, the gay doll wasmy plaything, and this gold hoop is the wedding-ring my father gave hisbride at the altar--she kept all these things to the last, and carriedthem like holy relics from land to land, from camp to camp. Will youtake these mementos to him?"

She nodded silently. 

"Now comes the best thing. Have you ever seen more beautifulworkmanship? You must wear this necklace, Ruth, as my first gift. "

He held up the costly ornament, but she shrank back, asking bitterly

"Captured booty?"

"In honorable war, " he answered, proudly, approaching to fasten thejewels round her neck with his own hands; but she pushed him back, snatched the ornament, and hurled it on the floor, exclaiming angrily:

"I loathe the stolen thing. Pick it up. It may suit the camp-followers. "

This destroyed his self-control, and seizing both her arms in an irongrasp, he muttered through his clenched teeth:

"That is an insult to my mother; take it back. " But Ruth heard and sawnothing; full of indignation she only felt that violence was being doneher, and vainly struggled against the irresistible strength, which heldher fast. 

Meantime the door had opened wide, but neither noticed it until a man'sdeep voice loudly and wrathfully exclaimed:

"Back, you scoundrel! Come here, Ruth. This is the way the assassingreets his family; begone, begone! you disgrace of my house!"

Adam had uttered the words, and now drew the hammer from the belt of hisleather apron. 

Ulrich gazed mutely into his face. There stood his father, strong, gigantic, as he had looked thirteen years before. His head was a littlebowed, his beard longer and whiter, his eyebrows were more bushy and hisexpression had grown more gloomy; otherwise he was wholly unchanged inevery feature. 

The son's eyes rested on the smith as if spellbound. It seemed as ifsome malicious fate had drawn him into a snare. 

He could say nothing except, "father, father, " and the smith found noother answer than the harsh "begone!"

Ruth approached the armorer, clung to his side, and pleaded:

"Hear him, don't send him away so; he is your child, and if anger justnow overpowered him. . . . "

"Spanish custom--to abuse women!" cried Adam. "I have no son Navarrete, or whatever the murderous monster calls himself. I am a burgher, andhave no son, who struts about in the stolen clothes of noblemen; asto this man and his assassins, I hate them, hate them all. Your footdefiles my house. Out with you, knave, or I will use my hammer. "

Ulrich again exclaimed, "father, father!" Then, regaining hisself-control by a violent effort, he gasped:

"Father, I came to you in good will, in love. I am an honest soldierand if any one but you--'Sdeath--if any other had dared to offer methis. . . . "

"Murder the dog, you would have said, " interrupted the smith. "We knowthe Spanish blessing: a sandre, a carne!--[Blood, murder. ]--Thanks foryour forbearance. There is the door. Another word, and I can restrainmyself no longer. "

Ruth had clung firmly to the smith, and motioned Ulrich to go. TheEletto groaned aloud, struck his forehead with his clenched fist, andrushed into the open air. 

As soon as Adam was alone with Ruth she caught his hand, exclaimingbeseechingly:

"Father, father, he is your own son! Love your enemies, the Saviourcommanded; and you. . . . "

"And I hate him, " said the smith, curtly and resolutely. "Did he hurtyou?"

"Your hate hurts me ten times as much! You judge without examining; yes, father, you do! When he assaulted me, he was in the right. He thought Ihad insulted his mother. "

Adam shrugged his shoulders, and she continued "The poor woman is dead. Ulrich brought you yonder ring; she never parted with it. "

The armorer started, seized the golden hoop, looked for the date inside, and when he had found it, clasped the ring in his hands and pressed themsilently to his temples. He stood in this attitude a short time, thenlet his arms fall, and said softly:

"The dead must be forgiven. . . . "

"And the living, father? You have punished him terribly, and he is not awicked man, no, indeed he is not! If he comes back again, father?"

"My apprentices shall show the Spanish mutineer the door, " cried theold man in a harsh, stern tone; "to the burgher's repentant son my housewill be always open. "

Meantime the Eletto wandered from one street to another. He feltbewildered, disgraced. 

It was not grief--no quiet heartache that disturbed--but a confusedblending of wrath and sorrow. He did not wish to appear before thefriend of his youth, and even avoided Hans Eitelfritz, who came towardshim. He was blind to the gay, joyous bustle of the capital; life seemedgrey and hollow. His intention of communicating with the commandantof the citadel remained unexecuted; for he thought of nothing but hisfather's anger, of Ruth, his own shame and misery. 

He could not leave so. 

His father must, yes, he must hear him, and when it grew dusk, he againsought the house to which he belonged, and from which he had been socruelly expelled. 

The door was locked. In reply to his knock, a man's unfamiliar voiceasked who he was, and what he wanted. 

He asked to speak with Adam, and called himself Ulrich. 

After waiting a long time he heard a door torn open, and the smithangrily exclaim:

"To your spinning-wheel! Whoever clings to him so long as he wears theSpanish dress, means evil to him as well as to me. "

"But hear him! You must hear him, father!" cried Ruth. 

The door closed, heavy steps approached the door of the house; itopened, and again Adam confronted his son. 

"What do you want?" he asked harshly. 

"To speak to you, to tell you that you did wrong to insult me unheard. "

"Are you still the Eletto? Answer!"

"I am!"

"And intend to remain so?"

"Que como--puede ser--" faltered Ulrich, who confused by the question, had strayed into the language in which he had been long accustomed tothink. But scarcely had the smith distinguished the foreign words, whenfresh anger seized him. 

"Then go to perdition with your Spaniards!" was the furious answer. 

The door slammed so that the house shook, and by degrees the smith'sheavy tread died away in the vestibule. 

"All over, all over!" murmured the rejected son. Then calming himself, he clenched his fist and muttered through his set teeth: "There shall beno lack of ruin; whoever it befalls, can bear it. "

While walking through the streets and across the squares, he devisedplan after plan, imagining what must come. Sword in hand he would burstthe old man's door, and the only booty he asked for himself should beRuth, for whom he longed, who in spite of everything loved him, who hadbelonged to him from her childhood. 

The next morning he negotiated cleverly and boldly with the commandantof the Spanish forces in the citadel. The fate of the city was sealed!and when he again crossed the great square and saw the city-hall withits proud, gable-crowned central building, and the shops in the lowerfloor crammed with wares, he laughed savagely. 

Hans Eitelfritz had seen him in the distance, and shouted:

"A pretty little house, three stories high. And how the broad windows, between the pillars in the side wings, glitter!"

Then he lowered his voice, for the square was swarming with men, cartsand horses, and continued:

"Look closer and choose your quarters. Come with me! I'll show you wherethe best things we need can be found. Haven't we bled often enough forthe pepper-sacks? Now it will be our turn to fleece them. The castleshere, with the gingerbread work on the gables, are the guildhalls. Thereis gold enough in each one, to make the company rich. Now this way!Directly behind the city-hall lies the Zucker Canal. There livestiff-necked people, who dine off of silver every day. Notice thestreet!"

Then he led him back to the square, and continued "The streets here alllead to the quay. Do you know it? Have you seen the warehouses? Filledto the very roof! The malmsey, dry canary and Indian allspice, mighttransform the Scheldt and Baltic Sea into a huge vat of hippocras. "

Ulrich followed his guide from street to street. Wherever he looked, hesaw vast wealth in barns and magazines; in houses, palaces and churches. 

Hans Eitelfritz stopped before a jeweller's shop, saying:

"Look here! I particularly admire these things, these toys: the littledog, the sled, the lady with the hoopskirt, all these things are puresilver. When the pillage begins, I shall grasp these and take them tomy sister's little children in Colln; they will be delighted, and if itshould ever be necessary, their mother can sell them. "

What a throng crowded the most aristocratic streets! English, Spanish, Italian and Hanseatic merchants tried to outdo the Netherland traders inmagnificent clothes and golden ornaments. Ulrich saw them all assembledin the Gothic exchange on the Mere, the handsomest square in the city. There they stood in the vast open hall, on the checkered marble floor, not by hundreds, but by thousands, dealing in goods which came from allquarters of the globe--from the most distant lands. Their offers andbids mingled in a noise audible at a long distance, which was borneacross the square like the echo of ocean surges. 

Sums were discussed, which even the winged imagination of thelansquenet could scarcely grasp. This city was a remarkable treasure, a thousand-fold richer booty than had been garnered from the Ottomantreasure-ship on the sea at Lepanto. 

Here was the fortune the Eletto needed, to build the palace in which heintended to place Ruth. To whom else would fall the lion's share of theenormous prize!

His future happiness was to arise from the destruction of this proudcity, stifling in its gold. 

These were ambitious brilliant plans, but he devised them with gloomyeyes, in a darkened mind. He intended to win by force what was deniedhim, so long as the power belonged to him. 

There could be no lack of flames and carnage; but that was part of histrade, as shavings belong to flames, hammer-strokes to smiths. 

Count Philipp had no suspicion of the assault, was not permittedto suspect anything. He attributed Ulrich's agitated manner to therejection he had encountered in his father's house, and when he tookleave of him on his departure to Swabia, talked kindly with his formerschoolmate and advised him to leave the Spanish flag and try once moreto be reconciled to the old man. 

Before the Eletto quitted the city, he gave Hans Eitelfritz, whoseregiment had secretly joined the mutiny, letters of safeguard for hisfamily and the artist, Moor. 

He had not forgotten the latter, but well-founded timidity withheldhim from appearing before the honored man, while cherishing the gloomythoughts that now filled his soul. 

In Aalst the mutineers received him with eager joy, harsh and repellentas he appeared, they cheerfully obeyed him; for he could hold out tothem a prospect, which lured a bright smile to the bearded lips of thegrimmest warrior. 

If power was the word, he scarcely understood how to use it aright, for wholly absorbed in himself, he led a joyless life of dissatisfiedlonging and gloomy reverie. 

It seemed to him as if he had lost one half of himself, and needed Ruthto become the whole man. Hours grew to days, days to weeks, and notuntil Roda's messenger appeared from the citadel in Antwerp to summonhim to action, did he revive and regain his old vivacity. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

On the twentieth of October Mastricht fell into the Spaniards' hands, and was cruelly pillaged. The garrison of Antwerp rose and began to makecommon cause with the friends of the mutineers in the citadel. 

Foreign merchants fled from the imperilled city. Governor Champagnysaw his own person and the cause of order seriously threatened by thedespots in the fortress, which dominated the town. A Netherland army, composed principally of Walloons, under the command of the incapableMarquis Havre, the reckless de Heze and other nobles appeared before thecapital, to prevent the worst. 

Champagny feared that the German regiments would feel insulted and scenttreason, if he admitted the government troops--but the majority ofthe lansquenets were already in league with the insurgents, the dangerhourly increased, everywhere loyalty wavered, the citizens urgentlypressed the matter, and the gates were opened to the Netherlanders. 

Count Oberstein, the German commander of the lansquenets, who whileintoxicated had pledged himself to make common cause with the mutineersin the citadel, remembered his duty and remained faithful to the end. The regiment in which Hans Eitelfritz served, and the other companies oflansquenets, had succumbed to the temptation, and only waited the signalfor revolt. The inhabitants felt just like a man, who keeps powder andfirebrands in the cellar, or a traveller, who recognizes robbers andmurderers in his own escort. 

Champagny called upon the citizens to help themselves, and used theirlabor in throwing up a wall of defence in the open part of the city, which was most dangerously threatened by the citadel. Among the men andwomen who voluntarily flocked to the work by thousands, were Adam, the smith, his apprentices, and Ruth. The former, with his journeymen, wielded the spade under the direction of a skilful engineer, the girl, with other women, braided gabions from willow-rods. 

She had lived through sorrowful days. Self-reproach, for having by herhasty fit of temper caused the father's outburst of anger to his son, constantly tortured her. 

She had learned to hate the Spaniards as bitterly as Adam; she knew thatUlrich was following a wicked, criminal course, yet she loved him, hisimage had been treasured from childhood, unassailed and unsullied, inthe most sacred depths of her heart. He was all in all to her, the oneperson destined for her, the man to whom she belonged as the eye does tothe face, the heart to the breast. 

She believed in his love, and when she strove to condemn and forget him, it seemed as if she were alienating, rejecting the best part of-herself. 

A thousand voices told her that she lived in his soul, as much as he didin hers, that his existence without her must be barren and imperfect. She did not ask when and how, she only prayed that she might becomehis, expecting it as confidently as light in the morning, spring afterwinter. Nothing appeared so irrefutable as this faith; it was the beliefof her loving soul. Then, when the inevitable had happened they would beone in their aspirations for virtue, and the son could no longer closehis heart against the father, nor the father shut his against the son. 

The child's vivid imagination was still alive in the maiden. Everyleisure hour she had thought of her lost playfellow, every day she hadtalked to his father about him, asking whether he would rather see himreturn as a famous artist, a skilful smith, or commander of a splendidship. 

Handsome, strong, superior to other men, he had always appeared. Now shefound him following evil courses, on the path to ruin; yet even herehe was peerless among his comrades; whatever stain rested upon him, hecertainly was not base and mean. 

As a child, she always had transformed him into a splendid fairy-prince, but she now divested him of all magnificence, seeing him attired inplain burgher dress, appear humbly before his father and stand besidehim at the forge. She dreamed that she was by his side, and before herstood the table she covered with food for him, and the water she gavehim after his work. She heard the house shake under the mighty blows ofhis hammer, and in imagination beheld him lay his curly head in her lap, and say he had found love and peace with her. 

The cannonade from the citadel stopped the citizens' work. Openhostilities had begun. 

On the morning of November 4th, under the cover of a thick fog, thetreacherous Spaniards, commanded by Romero, Vargas and Valdez enteredthe fortress. The citizens, among them Adam, learned this fact with rageand terror, but the mutineers of Aalst had not yet collie. 

"He is keeping them back, " Ruth had said the day before. "Antwerp, ourhome, is sacred to him!"

The cannon roared, culverins crashed, muskets and arquebuses rattled;the boding notes of the alarm-bells and the fierce shouts of soldiersand citizens hurrying to battle mingled with the deafening thunder ofthe artillery. 

Every hand seized a weapon, every shop was closed; hearts stood stillwith fear, or throbbed wildly with rage and emotion. Ruth remained calm. She detained the smith in the house, repeating her former words: "Themen from Aalst are not coming; he is keeping diem back. " Just at thatmoment the young apprentice, whose parents lived on the Scheldt, rushedwith dishevelled hair into the workshop, gasping:

"The men from Aalst are here. They crossed in peatboats and a galley. They wear green twigs in their helmets, and the Eletto is marching inthe van, bearing the standard. I saw them; terrible--horrible--sheathedin iron from top to toe. "

He said no more, for Adam, with a savage imprecation, interrupted him, seized his huge hammer, and rushed out of the house. 

Ruth staggered back into the workshop. 

Adam hurried straight to the rampart. Here stood six thousand Walloons, to defend the half-finished wall, and behind them large bodies of armedcitizens. 

"The men from Aalst have come!" echoed from lip to lip. 

Curses, wails of grief, yells of savage fury, blended with the thunderof the artillery and the ringing of the alarm bells. 

A fugitive now dashed from the counterscarp towards the Walloons, shouting:

"They are here, they are here! The blood-hound, Navarrete, is leadingthem. They will neither eat nor drink, they say, till they dine inParadise or Antwerp. Hark, hark! there they are!"

And they were there, coming nearer and nearer; foremost of all marchedthe Eletto, holding the standard in his upraised hand. 

Behind him, from a thousand bearded lips, echoed furious, greedy, terrible cries; "Santiago, Espana, a sangre, a carne, a fuego, asaco!"--[St. Jago; Spain, blood, murder, fire, pillage]--but Navarretewas silent, striding onward, erect and haughty, as if he wereproof against the bullets, that whistled around him on all sides. Consciousness of power and the fierce joy of battle sparkled in hiseyes. Woe betide him, who received a blow from the two-handed sword theEletto still held over his shoulder, now with his left hand. 

Adam stood with upraised hammer beside the front ranks of the Walloons!his eyes rested as if spellbound on his approaching son and the standardin his hand. The face of the guilty woman, who had defrauded him of thehappiness of his life, gazed at him from the banner. He knew not whetherhe was awake, or the sport of some bewildering dream. 

Now, now his glance met the Eletto's, and unable to restrain himselflonger, he raised his hammer and tried to rush forward, but the Walloonsforced him back. 

Yes, yes, he hated his own child, and trembling with rage, burning torush upon him, he saw the Eletto spring on the lowest projection of thewall, to climb up. For a short time he was concealed from his eyes, thenhe saw the top of the standard, then the banner itself, and now his sonstood on the highest part of the rampart, shouting: "Espana, Espana!"

At this moment, with a deafening din, a hundred arquebuses weredischarged close beside the smith, a dense cloud of smoke darkened theair, and when the wind dispersed it, Adam no longer beheld the standard. It lay on the ground; beside it the Eletto, with his face turned upward, mute and motionless. 

The father groaned aloud and closed his eyes; when he opened them, hundreds of iron-mailed mutineers had scaled the rampart. Beneath theirfeet lay his bleeding child. 

Corpse after corpse sank on the stone wall beside the fallen man, butthe iron wedge of the Spaniards pressed farther and farther forward. 

"Espana, a sangre, a carne!"

Now they had reached the Walloons, steel clashed against steel, but onlyfor a moment, then the defenders of the city wavered, the furious wedgeentered their ranks, they parted, yielded, and with loud shrieks tookto flight. The Spanish swords raged among them, and overpowered by thegeneral terror, the officers followed the example of the soldiers, theflying army, like a resistless torrent, carrying everything with it, even the smith. 

An unparalleled massacre began. Adam seeing a frantic horde rush intothe houses, remembered Ruth, and half mad with terror hastened back tothe smithy, where he told those left behind what he had witnessed. Then, arming himself and his journeymen with weapons forged by his own hand, he hurried out with them to renew the fight. 

Hours elapsed; the noise, the firing, the ringing of the alarm bellsstill continued; smoke and the smell of fire penetrated through thedoors and windows. 

Evening came, and the richest, most flourishing commercial capital inthe world was here a heap of ashes, there a ruin, everywhere a plunderedtreasury. 

Once the occupants of the smith's shop heard a band of murderers ragingand shouting outside of the smithy; but they passed by, and all day longno others entered the quiet street, which was inhabited only by workersin metal. 

Ruth and old Rahel had remained behind, under the protection of thebrave foreman. Adam had told them to fly to the cellar, if any uproararose outside the door. Ruth wore a dagger, determined in the worstextremity to turn it against her own breast. What did she care for life, since Ulrich had perished!

Old Rahel, an aged dame of eighty, paced restlessly, with bowed figure, through the large room, saying compassionately, whenever her eyesmet the girl's: "Ulrich, our Ulrich!" then, straightening herself andlooking upward. She no longer knew what had happened a few hours before, yet her memory faithfully retained the incidents that occurred manyyears previous. The maidservant, a native of Antwerp, had rushed home toher parents when the tumult began. 

As the day drew towards a close, the panes were less frequently shakenby the thunder of the artillery, the noise in the streets diminished, but the house became more and more filled with suffocating smoke. 

Night came, the lamp was lighted, the women started at every new sound, but anxiety for Adam now overpowered every other feeling in Ruth's mind. Just then the door opened, and the smith's deep voice called in thevestibule: "It is I! Don't be frightened, it is I!"

He had gone out with five journeymen: he returned with two. The otherslay slain in the streets, and with them Count Oberstein's soldiers, the only ones who had stoutly resisted the Spanish mutineers and theirallies to the last man. 

Adam had swung his hammer on the Mere and by the Zucker Canal among thecitizens, who fought desperately for the property and lives of theirfamilies;--but all was vain. Vargas's troopers had stifled even the lastbreath of resistance. 

The streets ran blood, corpses lay in heaps before the doors and on thepavement--among them the bodies of the Margrave of Antwerp, Verreyck, Burgomaster van der Mere, and many senators and nobles. Conflagrationafter conflagration crimsoned the heavens, the superb city-hall wasblazing, and from a thousand windows echoed the screams of the assailed, plundered, bleeding citizens, women and children. 

The smith hastily ate a few mouthfuls to restore his strength, thenraised his head, saying: "No one has touched our house. The door andshutters of neighbor Ykens' are shattered. "

"A miracle!" cried old Rahel, raising her staff. "The generation ofvipers scent richer booty than iron at the silversmith's. "

Just at that moment the knocker sounded. Adam started up, put on hiscoat of mail again, motioned to his journeymen and went to the door. 

Rahel shrieked loudly: "To the cellar, Ruth. Oh, God, oh, God, havemercy upon us! Quick--where's my shawl?--They are attacking us!--Come, come! Oh, I am caught, I can go no farther!"

Mortal terror had seized the old woman; she did not want to die. To thegirl death was welcome, and she did not stir. 

Voices were now audible in the vestibule, but they sounded neither noisynor threatening; yet Rahel shrieked in despair as a lansquenet, fullyarmed, entered the workshop with the armorer. 

Hans Eitelfritz had come to look for Ulrich's father. In his arms laythe dog Lelaps, which, bleeding from the wound made by a bullet, thatgrazed its neck, nestled trembling against its master. 

Bowing courteously to Ruth, the soldier said:

"Take pity on this poor creature, fair maiden, and wash its wound witha little wine. It deserves it. I could tell you such tales of itscleverness! It came from distant India, where a pirate. . . . But you shallhear the story some other time. Thanks, thanks! As to your son, Meister, it's a thousand pities about him. He was a splendid fellow, and we werelike two brothers. He himself gave me the safeguard for you and theartist, Moor. I fastened them on the doors with my own hands, as soonas the fray began. My swordbearer got the paste, and now may the writingstick there as an honorable memento till the end of the world. Navarretewas a faithful fellow, who never forgot his friends! How much good thatdoes Lelaps! See, see! He is licking your hands, that means, 'I thankyou. '"

While Ruth had been washing the dog's wound, and the lansquenet talkedof Ulrich, her tearful eyes met the father's. 

"They say he cut down twenty-one Walloons before he fell, " continuedHans. 

"No, sir, " interrupted Adam. "I saw him. He was shot before he raisedhis guilty sword. "

"Ah, ah!--but it happened on the rampart. "

"They rushed over him to the assault. "

"And there he still lies; not a soul has cared for the dead andwounded. "

The girl started, and laid the dog in the old man's lap, exclaiming:"Suppose Ulrich should be alive! Perhaps he was not mortally wounded, perhaps. . . . "

"Yes, everything is possible, " interrupted the lansquenet. "I could tellyou things. . . For instance, there was a countryman of mine whom, whenwe were in Africa, a Moorish Pacha struck. . . No lies now. . . Perhaps! Inearnest; it might happen that Ulrich. . . Wait. . . At midnight I shall keepguard on the rampart with my company, then I'll look. . . . "

"We, we will seek him!" cried Ruth, seizing the smith's arm. 

"I will, " replied the smith; "you must stay here. "

"No, father, I will go with you. "

The lansquenet also shook his head, saying "Jungfer, Jungfer, youdon't know what a day this is. Thank Our Heavenly Father that you havehitherto escaped so well. The fierce lion has tasted blood. You are apretty child, and if they should see you to-day. . . . "

"No matter, " interrupted the girl. "I know what I am asking. You willtake me with you, father! Do so, if you love me! I will find him, if anyone can!

"Oh, sir, sir, you look kind and friendly! You have the guard. Escortus; let me seek Ulrich. I shall find him, I know; I must seek him--Imust. "

The girl's cheeks were glowing; for before her she saw her playfellow, her lover, gasping for breath, with staring eyes, her name upon hisdying lips. 

Adam sadly shook his head, but Hans Eitelfritz was touched by the girl'seager longing to help the man who was dear to him, so he hastily taxedhis inventive brain, saying:

"Perhaps it might be risked. . . Listen to me, Meister! You won't beparticularly safe in the streets, yourself, and could hardly reach therampart without me. I shall lose precious time; but you are his father, and this girl--is she his sister?--No?--So much the better for him, ifhe lives! It isn't an easy matter, but it can be done. Yonder good damewill take care of Lelaps for me. Poor dog! That feels good, doesn't it?Well then. . . I can be here again at midnight. Have you a handcart in thehouse?"

"For coal and iron. "

"That will answer. Let the woman make a kettle of soup, and if you havea few hams. . . . "

"There are four in the store-room, " cried Ruth. 

"Take some bread, a few jugs of wine, and a keg of beer, too, and thenfollow me quietly. I have the password, my servant will accompany me, and I'll make the Spaniards believe you belong to us, and are bringingmy men their supper. Blacken your pretty face a little, my dear girl, wrap yourself up well, and if we find Ulrich we will put him in theempty cart, and I will accompany you home again. Take yonder spicesack, and if we find the poor fellow, dead or alive, hide him with it. Thesack was intended for other things, but I shall be well content withthis booty. Take care of these silver toys. What pretty things they are!How the little horse rears, and see the bird in the cage! Don't look sofierce, Meister! In catching fish we must be content even with smelts;if I hadn't taken these, others would have done so; they are formy sister's children, and there is something else hidden here in mydoublet; it shall help me to pass my leisure hours. One man's meat isanother man's poison. "

When Hans Eitelfritz returned at midnight, the cart with the food andliquor was ready. Adam's warnings were unavailing. Ruth resolutelyinsisted upon accompanying him, and he well knew what urged her to risksafety and life as freely as he did himself. 

Old Rahel had done her best to conceal Ruth's beauty. 

The dangerous nocturnal pilgrimage began. 

The smith pulled the cart, and Ruth pushed, Hans Eitelfritz, with hissword-bearer, walking by her side. From time to time Spanish soldiersmet and accosted them; but Hans skilfully satisfied their curiosity anddispelled their suspicions. 

Pillage and murder had not yet ceased, and Ruth saw, heard, andmistrusted scenes of horror, that congealed her blood. But she bore upuntil they reached the rampart. 

Here Eitelfritz was among his own men. 

He delivered the meat and drink to them, told them to take it out of thecart, and invited them to fall to boldly. Then, seizing a lantern, heguided Ruth and the smith, who drew the light cart after them, throughthe intense darkness of the November night to the rampart. 

Hans Eitelfritz lighted the way, and all three searched. Corpse laybeside corpse. Wherever Ruth set her foot, it touched some fallensoldier. Dread, horror and loathing threatened to deprive her ofconsciousness; but the ardent longing, the one last hope of her soulsustained her, steeled her energy, sharpened her sight. 

They had reached the centre of the rampart, when she saw in the distancea tall figure stretched at full length. 

That, yes, that was he!

Snatching the lantern from the lansquenet's hand, she rushed to theprostrate form, threw herself on her knees beside it, and cast the lightupon the face. 

What had she seen?

Why did the shriek she uttered sound so agonized? The men wereapproaching, but Ruth knew that there was something else to be done, besides weeping and wailing. 

She pressed her ear close to the mailed breast to listen, and whenshe heard no breath, hurriedly unfastened the clasps and buckles thatconfined the armor. 

The cuirass fell rattling on the ground, and now--no, there was nodeception, the wounded man's chest rose under her ear, she heard thefaint throbbing of his heart, the feeble flutter of a gasping breach. 

Bursting into loud, convulsive weeping, she raised his head and pressedit to her bosom. 

"He is dead; I thought so!" said the lansquenet, and Adam sank onhis knees before his wounded son. But Ruth's sobs now changed to low, joyous, musical laughter, which echoed in her voice as she exclaimed:"Ulrich breathes, he lives! Oh, God! oh, God! how we thank Thee!"

Then--was she deceived, could it be? She heard the inflexible man besideher sob, saw him bend over Ulrich, listen to the beating of his heart, and press his bearded lips first to his temples, then on the hand he hadso harshly rejected. 

Hans Eitelfritz warned them to hasten, carried the senseless man, withAdam's assistance, to the cart, and half an hour later the dangerouslywounded, outcast son was lying in the most comfortable bed in the bestroom in his father's house. His couch was in the upper story; down inthe kitchen old Rahel was moving about the hearth, preparing her "goodsalve" herself. While thus engaged she often chuckled aloud, murmuring"Ulrich, " and while mixing and stirring the mixture could not keep herold feet still; it almost seemed as if she wanted to dance. 

Hans Eitelfritz promised Adam to tell no one what had become of his son, and then returned to his men. The next morning the mutineers from Aalstsought their fallen leader; but he had disappeared, and the legendnow became wide-spread among them, that the Prince of Evil had carriedNavarrete to his own abode. The dog Lelaps died of his wound, andscarcely a week after the pillage of flourishing Antwerp by the "SpanishFuries, " Hans Eitelfritz's regiment was ordered to Ghent. He came withdrooping head to the smithy, to take his leave. He had sold his costlybooty, and, like so many other pillagers, gambled away the stolenproperty at the exchange. Nothing was left him of the great day inAntwerp, except the silver toys for his sister's children in Colln onthe Spree. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

The fire in the smithy was extinguished, no hammer fell on the anvil;for the wounded man lay in a burning fever; every loud noise disturbedhim. Adam had noticed this himself, and gave no time to his work, forhe had to assist in nursing his son, when it was necessary to raise hisheavy body, and to relieve Ruth, when, after long night-watches, hervigorous strength was exhausted. 

The old man saw that the girl's bands were more deft than his owntoil-hardened ones, and let her take the principal charge-but the hourswhen she was resting in her room were the dearest to him, for thenhe was alone with Ulrich, could read his countenance undisturbed andrejoice in gazing at every feature, which reminded him of his child'sboyhood and of Flora. 

He often pressed his bearded lips to the invalid's burning foreheador limp hand, and when the physician with an anxious face had left thehouse, he knelt beside Ulrich's couch, buried his forehead among thepillows, and fervently prayed the Heavenly Father, to spare his childand take in exchange his own life and all that he possessed. 

He often thought the end had come, and gave himself up withoutresistance to his grief; Ruth, on the contrary, never lost hope, noteven in the darkest hours. God had not let her find Ulrich, merely totake him from her again. The end of danger was to her the beginning ofdeliverance. When he recognized her the first time, she already sawhim, leaning on her shoulder, walk through the room; when he could raisehimself, she thought him cured. 

Her heart was overflowing with joy, yet her mind remained watchful andthoughtful during the long, toilsome nursing. She did not forget thesmallest trifle, for before she undertook anything she saw in her mindevery detail involved, as if it were already completed. Ulrich took nofood which she had not prepared with her own hand, no drink which shehad not herself brought from the cellar or the well. She perceived inadvance what disturbed him, what pleased him, what he needed. If sheopened or closed the curtain, she gave or withheld no more light thanwas agreeable to him; if she arranged the pillows behind him, she placedthem neither too high nor too low, and bound up his wounds with a gentleyet firm hand, like an experienced physician. Whatever he felt--pain orcomfort--she experienced with him. 

By degrees the fever vanished; consciousness returned, his painlessened, he could move himself again, and began to feel stronger. Atfirst he did not know where he was; then he recognized Ruth, and thenhis father. 

How still, how dusky, how clean everything that surrounded him was!Delightful repose stole over him, pleasant weariness soothed everystormy emotion of his heart. Whenever he opened his eyes, tender, anxious glances met him. Even when the pain returned he enjoyedpeaceful, consoling mental happiness. Ruth felt this also, and regardedit as a peerless reward. 

When she entered the sick-room with fresh linen, and the odor oflavender her dead mother had liked floated softly to him from the cleansheets, he thought his boyhood had returned, and with it the wise, friendly doctor's house. Elizabeth, the shady pine-woods of his home, its murmuring brooks and luxuriant meadows, again rose before hismind; he saw Ruth and himself listening to the birds, picking berries, gathering flowers, and beseeching beautiful gifts from the "word. " Hisfather appeared even more kind, affectionate, and careful than in thosedays. The man became the boy again, and all his former good traits ofcharacter now sprang up freshly under the bright light and vivifying dewof love. 

He received Ruth's unwearied attentions with ardent gratitude, and whenhe gazed into her faithful eyes, when her hand touched him, her soft, deep voice penetrated the depths of his soul, an unexampled sense ofhappiness filled his breast. 

Everything, from the least to the greatest, embraced his soul with thearms of love. It seemed as if the ardent yearning of his heart extendedfar beyond the earth, and rose to God, who fills the universe withHis infinite paternal love. His every breath, Ulrich thought, musthenceforth be a prayer, a prayer of gratitude to Him, who is loveitself, the Love, through and in which he lived. 

He had sought love, to enjoy its gifts; now he was glad to makesacrifices for its sake. He saw how Ruth's beautiful face saddenedwhen he was suffering, and with manly strength of will concealedinexpressible agony under a grateful smile. He feigned sleep, to permither and his father to rest, and when tortured by feverish restlessness, lay still to give his beloved nurses pleasure and repay theirsolicitude. Love urged him to goodness, gave him strength for all thatis good. His convalescence advanced and, when he was permitted to leavehis bed, his father was the first one to support him through the roomand down the steps into the court-yard. He often felt with quiet emotionthe old man stroke the hand that rested on his arm, and when, exhausted, he returned to the sick-room, he sank with a grateful heart into hiscomfortable seat, casting a look of pleasure at the flowers, which Ruthhad taken from her chamber window and placed on the table beside him. 

His family now knew what he had endured and experienced, and the smithfound a kind, soothing word for all that, a few months before, he hadconsidered criminal and unpardonable. 

During such a conversation, Ulrich once exclaimed "War! You know not howit bears one along with it; it is a game whose stake is life. That ofothers is of as little value as your own; to do your worst to every one, is the watchword; but now--every thing has grown so calm in my soul, and I have a horror of the turmoil in the field. I was talking with Ruthyesterday about her father, and she reminded me of his favorite saying, which I had forgotten long ago. Do you know what it is? 'Do unto others, as ye would that others should do unto you. ' I have not been cruel, andnever drew the sword out of pleasure in slaying; but now I grieve forhaving brought woe to so many!

"What things were done in Haarlem! If you had moved there instead of toAntwerp, and you and Ruth. . . I dare not think of it! Memories of thosedays torture me in many a sleepless hour, and there is much that fillsme with bitter remorse. But I am permitted to live, and it seems as ifI were new-born, and henceforth existence and doing good must besynonymous to me. You were right to be angry. . . . "

"That is all forgiven and forgotten, " interrupted the smith in aresonant voice, pressing his son's fingers with his hard right hand. 

These words affected the convalescent like a strengthening potion, and when the hammers again moved in the smithy, Ulrich was no longersatisfied with his idle life, and began with Ruth to look forward to anddiscuss the future. 

"The words: 'fortune, ' 'fame, ' 'power, '" he said once, "have deceivedme; but art! You don't know, Ruth, what art is! It does not bestoweverything, but a great deal, a great deal. Meister Moor was indeed ateacher! I am too old to begin at the beginning once more. If it werenot for that. . . . "

"Well, Ulrich?"

"I should like to try painting again. "

The girl exhorted him to take courage, and told his father of theirconversation. The smith put on his Sunday clothes and went to theartist's house. The latter was in Brussels, but was expected home soon. 

From this time, every third day, Adam donned his best clothes, which hedisliked to wear, and went to the artist's; but always in vain. 

In the month of February the invalid was playing chess with Ruth, --shehad learned the game from the smith and Ulrich from her, --when Adamentered the room, saying: "when the game is over, I wish to speak toyou, my son. "

The young girl had the advantage, but instantly pushed the piecestogether and left the two alone. 

She well knew what was passing in the father's mind, for the day beforehe had brought all sorts of artist's materials, and told her to arrangethe little gable-room, with the large window facing towards the north, and put the easel and colors there. They had only smiled at each other, but they had long since learned to understand each other, even withoutwords. 

"What is it?" asked Ulrich in surprise. 

The smith then told him what he had provided and arranged, adding: "thepicture on the standard--you say you painted it yourself. "

"Yes, father. "

"It was your mother, exactly as she looked when. . . She did not treateither of us rightly--but she!--the Christian must forgive;--and as shewas your mother--why--I should like. . . Perhaps it is not possible; butif you could paint her picture, not as a Madonna, only as she lookedwhen a young wife. . . . "

"I can, I will!" cried Ulrich, in joyous excitement. "Take me upstairs, is the canvas ready?"

"In the frame, firmly in the frame! I am an old man, and you see, child, I remember how wonderfully sweet your mother was; but I cannever succeed in recalling just how she looked then. I have tried, triedthousands and thousands of times; at--Richtberg, here, everywhere--deepas was my wrath!"

"You shall see her again surely--surely!" interrupted Ulrich. "I see herbefore me, and what I see in my mind, I can paint!"

The work was commenced the very same day. Ulrich now succeededwonderfully, and lavished on the portrait all the wealth of love, withwhich his heart was filled. 

Never had he guided the brush so joyously; in painting this picture heonly wished to give, to give--give his beloved father the best he couldaccomplish, so he succeeded. 

The young wife, attired in a burgher dress, stood with her bewitchingeyes and a melancholy, half-tender, half-mournful smile on her lips. 

Adam was not permitted to enter the studio again until the portrait wascompleted. When Ulrich at last unveiled the picture, the old man--unablelonger to control himself--burst into loud sobs and fell upon hisson's breast. It seemed to Adam that the pretty creature in the goldenframe--far from needing his forgiveness--was entitled to his gratitudefor many blissful hours. 

Soon after, Adam found Moor at home, and a few hours later took Ulrichto him. It was a happy and a quiet meeting, which was soon followed by asecond interview in the smith's house. 

Moor gazed long and searchingly at Ulrich's work. When he had examinedit sufficiently, he held out his hand to his pupil, saying warmly:

"I always said so; you are an artist! From to-morrow we will worktogether again, daily, and you will win more glorious victories with thebrush than with the sword. "

Ulrich's cheeks glowed with happiness and pride. 

Ruth had never before seen him look so, and as she gazed joyfully intohis eyes, he held out his hands to her, exclaiming: "An artist, anartist again! Oh, would that I had always remained one! Now I lack onlyone thing more--yourself!"

She rushed to his embrace, exclaiming joyously "Yours, yours! I havealways been so, and always shall be, to-day, to-morrow, unto death, forever and ever!"

"Yes, yes, " he answered gravely. "Our hearts are one and ever will be, nothing can separate them; but your fate shall not be linked to minetill, Moor himself calls me a master. Love imposes no condition--I amyours and you are mine--but I impose the trial on myself, and this timeI know it will be passed. "

A new spirit animated the pupil. He rushed to his work with tirelessenergy, and even the hardest task became easy, when he thought of theprize he sought. At the end of a year, Moor ceased to instruct him, andRuth became the wife of Meister Ulrich Schwab. 

The famous artist-guild of Antwerp soon proudly numbered him amongthem, and even at the present day his pictures are highly esteemed byconnoisseurs, though they are attributed to other painters, for he neversigned his name to his works. 

Of the four words, which illumined his life-path as guiding-stars, hehad learned to value fame and power least; fortune and art remainedfaithful to him, but as the earth does not shine by its own might, butreceives its light from the sun, so they obtained brilliancy, charm andendearing power through love. 

The fierce Eletto, whose sword raged in war, following the teachings ofhis noble Master, became a truly Christian philanthropist. 

Many have gazed with quiet delight at the magnificent picture, whichrepresents a beautiful mother, with a bright, intelligent face, leadingher three blooming children towards a pleasant old man, who holds outhis arms to them. The old man is Adam, the mother Ruth, the children arethe armorer's grandchildren; Ulrich Schwab was the artist. 

Meister Moor died soon after Ulrich's marriage, and a few years after, Sophonisba di Moncada came to Antwerp to seek the grave of him she hadloved. She knew from the dead man that he had met his dear Madrid pupil, and her first visit was to the latter. 

After looking at his works, she exclaimed:

"The word! Do you remember, Meister? I told you then, that you had foundthe right one. You are greatly altered, and it is a pity that you havelost your flowing locks; but you look like a happy man, and to what doyou owe it? To the word, the only right word: 'Art!'"

He let her finish the sentence, then answered gravely "There is stilla loftier word, noble lady! Whoever owns it--is rich indeed. He will nolonger wander--seek in doubt. 

"And this is?" she asked incredulously, with a smile of superiorknowledge. 

"I have found it, " he answered firmly. "It is 'Love. '"

Sophonisba bent her head, saying softly and sadly: "yes, yes--love. "

 ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

 Among fools one must be a fool He was steadfast in everything, even anger No one we learn to hate more easily, than the benefactor Once laughed at a misfortune, its sting loses its point To expect gratitude is folly Whoever condemns, feels himself superior