A WORD, ONLY A WORD

By Georg Ebers

Volume 4. 

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 was onlytoo often under the dominion of melancholy moods, had won only a shorttime before a noble human heart, and was on the way to the realization ofhis boldest dreams, the fulfilment of his most ardent wishes. 

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 desired tosee, 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, sensible andloving as Isabella his own, rejoiced and inspired him, but during thesolitary hours a sea-voyage so lavishly bestows, a strange transformationin 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 at theanticipation 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 with abride, a wife? The best and fairest of her sex would now have seemed tohim 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 deprived himselfof 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 backward gazing, mind, oh! dome of St. Mark, in thy incomparable garb of gold andpaintings, 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, with justpride! Thou harbor, thou forest of masts, thou countless fleet ofstately 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 ofriches, throne of power, hall of fame, temple of art, who could escapethy spell!

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, in ball-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--to forget--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 everychanging scene, thinking only of the present and asking no questionsabout the future. 

Like one possessed he plunged into passion's wild whirl. From theembrace of beautiful arms he rushed to the gaming-table, where the ducatshe flung down soon became a pile of gold; the zechins filled his purse tooverflowing. 

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 tall figurewas 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, untinged bythe 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-sighted man. 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, and hearinghim praised without stint as a portrait-painter. He was questioned abouthim, 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, andother 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 show whathe 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, andwhile hurriedly guiding it and mixing the colors, he saw in fancy Costastanding 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 as hecould. 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! APaul, or with longer hair and a little more youthful aspect, an admirableSt. 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, divine Art, would commence for him. He would enjoy this one more evening of pleasure, this night of joy; drain it to the dregs. He fancied he had won aright 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 odors fromthe floating tresses of fair women bewildered Ulrich's senses, alreadyconfused by success and joy. He boldly accosted every one, and if hesuspected that a fair face was concealed under a mask, drew nearer, touched the strings of a lute, that hung by a purple ribbon round hisneck, 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 cease tosignify 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: "Therest 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 the much-enviedcouple. 

Claudia threw herself upon a couch; Ulrich left her to procure a gondola. 

As soon as he was gone, she was surrounded by a motley throng of suitors. 

How the beautiful woman's dark eyes sparkled, how the gems on her fullneck 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 meagre food, 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 noticed it. Now he bowed to the gentlemen, offered her his arm, and as they descendedthe staircase, whispered: "The mask who escorted you just now detainedme;--and there. . . . See, they are picking him up down there in the 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 a low, anxious tone: "Go, go, unhappy man, whoever you may be! It was LuigiGrimani; it was a Grimani! You are lost, if they find you. Go, if youlove 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, Venice laybehind 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 he hadseen 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, a poorlad, just escaped from prison, he had been harshly rebuffed by the sameporter, who now humbly saluted the young gentleman attired in costlyvelvet. 

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. Youmust 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 with youand 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 and Ulrich. But she was not to obtain her purpose, for Coello suddenly interruptedthe returned travellers story, saying:

"This is getting beyond endurance. If she does her utmost, you shall seeIsabella. 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, saveI. . . . 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, but abeautiful, 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, her bearingself-possessed. Her large, clear eyes now showed their full beauty, herhalf-developed features had acquired exquisite symmetry, and her raven-black hair floated, like a shining ornament, around her pale, charmingface. 

"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, summonedall her courage and looking the returned traveller more steadily in theface, 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 face andtrembling 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. 'I did 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 a skilfulartist and good husband. 

He willingly yielded to his wife in small matters, in important ones hemeant 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 bitterly asshe had done, as soon as the door of the studio closed behind her, unlessthey 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 Casa delCampo, 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 had sooften 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 this pictureforced himself to a method of work, against which his inmost heartrebelled. His model was beautiful, but he could read nothing in theregular 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, andto escape the temptation, fled to the church, where he spent whole hours, 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, darted intohis 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 mouth ofthe 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 set himon 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 the man, who preceded him, was no less important a personage than the kinghimself. 

With throbbing heart, unable to utter a single word, Ulrich opened thedoor 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 garbof a Madonna! And the child! Look at those legs! When he grows up, hemay become 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, who boughtthe world with her tears, as Christ did with His sacred blood. I haveseen enough, more than enough! Escovedo is waiting for me outside! Wewill 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 same place, 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--I grieve 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 do witheach 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, thanks formany kindnesses. I am, I have--my heart--my brain, everything isconfused. I only know that you, that Isabella, have been kind to me. And I, I have--it will kill me yet! Good fortune gone! Art gone! ADios, treacherous world! A Dios, divine art!"

As he uttered the last sentence he drew his hand from the artist's grasp, rushed back into the studio, and with streaming eyes pressed his lips tothe palette, the handle of the brush, and his ruined picture; then hedashed 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 it withthese 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, and therays of the young day-star shot golden threads through the light whitemists, 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 mirror ofthe 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, whostretch their sinewy arms to grasp and hurl their opponents to theground. 

Pope Pius the Fifth had summoned Christianity to resist the land-devouring power of the Ottomans. Cyprus, Christian Cyprus, the lastprovince Venice possessed in the Levant, had fallen into the hands of theMoslems. 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 Christian portfor a long time, put forth to sea from this harbor. In spite of allintrigues, King Philip had entrusted the chief command to his young half-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, whichsought 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 for battle. 

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 plan ofbattle, 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 ordered himto 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, andits 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 would neithersee nor hear them. 

Brave soldiers fell bleeding and gasping on the deck beside him, his mastwas 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. His arm 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 did hiszechins 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 he hadformed 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 seemed oneof the most fervent of the devout Castilians, for he entered every churchand chapel the army passed, and remained standing a long, long timebefore 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 the picaderoin Madrid; he nodded approvingly to him, and mounted the bulwark. Butthe other did not follow instantly, for his friend Don Miguel had joinedhim, and asked to share the adventure. Navarrete and the captain stroveto dissuade the sick man, but the latter suddenly felt cured of hisfever, and with flashing eyes insisted on having his own 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 swung themas mowers do their scythes. They attacked, struck, felled, and theforemost 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 the handthat held the curved sabre, a second stretched the Moslem on the deck. 

But the Turks' numbers were greatly superior and threatened to crush theheroes, when Don Miguel Cervantes, Ulrich's friend, appeared with twelvefresh soldiers on the scene of battle, and cut their way to the hard-pressed champions. Other Spanish and Genoese warriors followed and thefray became still more furious. 

Ulrich had been forced far away from his royal companion-in-arms, and wasnow swinging his blade beside his invalid friend. Don Miguel's breastwas already bleeding from two wounds, and he now fell by Ulrich's side; abullet had broken his left arm. 

Ulrich stooped and raised him; his men surrounded him, and the Turks werescattered, as the tempest sweeps clouds from the mountain. 

Don Miguel tried to lift the sword, which had dropped from his grasp, buthe only clutched the empty air, and raising his large eyes as if inecstasy, 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 blare oftrumpets, 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 this victoryclung 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, thegeneral gave the bold warrior and gallant trooper, the honorablecommission of bearing tidings of the victory to tile king. Two galleysstood out to sea in a westerly direction at the same time: a Spanish one, bearing Don Juan's messenger, and a Venetian ship, conveying the courierof 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 intervals theprophet'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 of millionsof 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, torturedas if on the rack, he clung to the saddle, yet never ceased to use whipand 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 before alabyrinth 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, seeing Ulrichslip from his horse, hastened to receive the tottering soldier's tidings, 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 his stupor, until the communion was over and the king had ordered a Te Deum for thevictory of Lepanto. 

Then he rose, and as he came out of the pew a newly-married couple passedhim, the architect, Herrera, and Isabella Coello, radiant in beauty. 

Ulrich clenched his fist, and the thought passed through his mind, thathe would cast away good-fortune, art and fame as carelessly as soap-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, among thelast of the victor's train, he felt that he was not overlooked, and oftenheard people tell each other of his deeds. 

This made him raise his head, swelled his heart, urged him into new pathsof 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 lofty wishes;to men of lower rank fame can remain the guiding star on life's pathway. 

The elite of the army was in the Netherlands; there he could find what hedesired. 

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, uponthe grass. "

And now, when with the rebellious army he had left the island of Schouwenbehind 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 citizens alsoknew 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 of theirfirm walls, in burning cities, in streets and alleys, in council-chambersand plundered homes, he had confronted them as a murderer and destroyer. Yet, though the word fame had long been embittered to him, the inhumanitywhich clung to his deeds had the least share 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 violaters 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 witheredleaves. Fame would not fill the void in his heart, failed to satisfyhis discontented mind; power offered the lonely man no companionship ofthe soul, it could not even silence the voice which upbraided him--theunapproachable champion, him at whom no mortal dared to look askance--with being a miserable fool, defrauded of true happiness and the rightambition. 

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 the burdenintrusted to him was an easily-managed toy. Meantime, with inimitablesolemnity, he threw back the upper portion of the body and his curlyhead, placing his left hand on his hip. The arch of the broad cheststood forth in fine relief, and with it the breast-plate and points ofhis armor. He seemed like a proud ship under swelling sails, and even inhostile cities, read admiration in the glances of the gaping crowd. Yethe was a miserable, discontented man, and could not help thinking moreand 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 and thelieutenants, had retired after the great mutiny on the island of Schouwenwas accomplished, and their places were now occupied by ensigns, sergeants and quartermasters. The higher officers had gone to Brussels, and the mutinous army marched without any chief through Brabant. 

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, anEletto--[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 to bechosen, 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 election wasto be held. 

In the arrangement of the tents, the distribution of the wagons whichsurrounded the camp like a wall, the stationing of field-pieces at theleast 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 be commander-in-chief, able to conquer a kingdom and keep the world in terror. Perhaps, onlyperhaps; for another was seeking with dangerous means to obtain controlof the army. 

This was Sergeant-Major and Quartermaster Zorrillo, an excellent andpopular soldier, who had been chosen Eletto after the battle of Mook-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 to thebold fellow, stole over him. 

He could not help asking himself whether he had seen her before, and whenthe thought that she perhaps resembled his mother, once entered his mind, he angrily rejected it. 

The day before she had offered to tell his fortune; but he refused point-blank, for surely no good tidings could come to him from those lips. 

To-day she had asked what his Christian name was, and for the first timein years he remembered that he was also called "Ulrich. " Now he wasnothing 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 hold acouncil. 

The weather outside was hot and sultry, and the more people assembled, the heavier and more oppressive became the air within the spacious tent, the interior of which looked plain enough, for its whole furnitureconsisted of some small roughly-made tables, some benches and chairs, andone large table, and a superb ebony chest with ivory ornaments, evidentlystolen property. On this work of art lay the pillows used at night, booty obtained at Haarlem; they were covered with bright but worn-outsilk, which had long shown the need of the thrifty touch of a woman'shand. Pictures of the saints were pasted on the walls, and a crucifixhung 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, andthe speakers often struck their coats of mail with their clenched fists, 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 like atenfold 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 baton andcommand order, to transform the roar into a low muttering; the weather-beaten, scarred, pitiless soldiers, even when mutineers, yielded willingobedience to the word of command and the iron constraint of discipline. 

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 a city, roared others; first wealthy Mechlin, which could be speedily reached. 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 they enforcedtheir 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 is verywarm 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 a friendlyagreement with the commander-in-chief. There was sound, statesmanlikelogic in his words, yet his language did not lack warmth and charm. Themen perceived that he was in earnest, and while he spoke the sibyl wentbehind him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and wiped the perspirationfrom his brow with her handkerchief. Zorrillo permitted it, and withoutinterrupting himself, gave her a grateful, affectionate glance. 

The bronzed warriors liked to look at her, and even permitted her toutter a word of advice or warning during their discussions, for she was awise woman, not one of the ordinary stamp. Her blue eyes sparkled withintelligence 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 when alone?The lines were well disguised, yet they increased, and year by year grewdeeper. 

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 it hadturned 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 the camp-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 "free army"--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;--but suddenly 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. Recoveringher self-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 say tohis companions was against Ulrich and his views. The longer thesergeant-major detained him the better. Everything that recalled MasterMoor was dear to Ulrich, and as soon as he was alone with HansEitelfritz, he again greeted him in a strange mixture of Spanish andGerman. 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 heenjoyed being able to speak German again after so many years, difficultas it was. It seemed as if a crust melted away from his heart, and noneof those present had ever seen him so gay, so full of youthful vivacity. Only one person knew that he could laugh and play noisily, and this onewas the beautiful woman at the long table, who knew not whether sheshould 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 the beardedgiant she saw a beautiful, curly-haired child; besides the man's deepvoice she heard clear, sweet childish tones, that called her "mother" andrang 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 in amother'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 from herson'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 rain istrickling 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; yetit 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 scented aspring. 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 shall Ifind 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 a powerfulweapon. The Spaniards would give the command only to a Spaniard. 

This thought now occurred to him for the first time. It had needed themeeting 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 the tableshook. Then he struck the top with his clenched fist, and when theSpaniards 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, andthe old servant Enrique. There wasn't a longer nose than his in allCastile! 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. Twelve yearsbefore, while still sharing the tent of the Walloon captain Grandgagnage, 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, with whom she hadlodged a long time. 

When her voice grew sharp and weaker, in order to retain considerationand make herself important, she devoted herself to predicting the future;her versatile mind, her ambition, and the knowledge of human-naturegained in the camp and during her wanderings from land to land, aidedher 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 into hereyes. 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 old andweary 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 the bow-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 pressing herface 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, I willtell 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.