still more.  He felt as if he were in Heaven, and thought less and less
of the grief he had endured.

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

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

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

The smith's son now received the best clothes belonging to his
aristocratic companion in age.  The suit was entirely black, but each
garment of a different material, the stockings silk, the breeches satin,
the doublet soft Flanders velvet.  Golden-yellow puffs and slashes stood
forth in beautiful relief against the darker stuff.  Even the knots of
ribbon 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 of real
gems confined the black and yellow plumes in the velvet hat.

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

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

Although little was said during the sittings, they were always too short
for the boy.  He did not stir, for it always seemed to him as if any
movement would destroy the sacred act he witnessed, and when, in the
pauses, he looked at the canvas and saw how swiftly and steadily the work
progressed, he felt as if before his own eyes, he was being born again to
a nobler existence.  In the wassail-hall hung the portrait of a young
Prince of Navarre, whose life had been saved in the chase by a
Rappoltstein.  Ulrich, attired in the count's clothes, looked exactly
like him.  The jester had been the first to perceive this strange
circumstance.  Every one, even Moor, agreed with him, and so it happened
that Pellicanus henceforth called his young friend the Navarrete.  The
name pleased the boy.  Everything here pleased him, and he was full of
happiness; only often at night he could not help grieving because, while
his father was dead, he enjoyed such an overflowing abundance of good
things, and because he had lost his mother, Ruth, and all who had loved
him.




CHAPTER XIII.

Ulrich was obliged to share the jester's sleeping-room, and as Pellicanus
shrank from getting out of bed, while suffering from night-sweats, and
often needed something, he roused Ulrich from his sleep, and the latter
was always ready to assist him.  This happened more frequently as they
continued their journey, and the poor little man's illness increased.

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

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

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

"When Orpheus played so exquisitely on his lute, all the trees rushed
forward to dance.  The birches wanted to come too, but being vain,
stopped to put on white dresses, to outdo the others.  When they finally
appeared on the dancing-ground, the singer had already gone--and now,
summer and winter, year in and year out, they keep their white dresses
on, 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 said
that 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 hung
upon the cross, it pitied him, and with its little bill strove to draw
the nails from the wounded hands.  In memory of this friendly act, the
Lord had marked its beak with the cross, and painted a dark-red spot on
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 a
brood of young ones in winter, and it also had the power of lessening the
fever of those, who cherished it.

A flock of wild geese flew over the road and the hills, and Pellicanus
cried: "Look there!  They always fly in two straight lines, and form a
letter of the alphabet.  This time it is an A.  Can you see it?  When the
Lord was writing the laws on the tablets, a flock of wild geese flew
across 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 their
whole race, that is, all geese, are compelled to let those people who
wish to write, pluck the feathers from their wings."

Pellicanus was fond of talking to the boy in their bedroom.  He always
called him Navarrete, and the artist, when in a cheerful mood, followed
his example.

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

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

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

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

"Yes,  yes,"  murmured  the jester.  "It's  a  pity about Costa.  Many a
Christian might feel honored at resembling some Jews.  It is only a
misfortune to be born a Hebrew, and be deprived of eating ham.  The Jews
are compelled to wear an offensive badge, but many a Christian child is
born with one.  For instance, in Sparta they would have hurled me into
the gulf, on account of my big head, and deformed shoulder.  Nowadays,
people are less merciful, and let men like us drag the cripple's mark
through 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 my
shoulder, I might perhaps now be a cardinal, wear purple, and instead of
riding under a grey tilt, drive in a golden coach, with well-fed black
steeds.  Your body was measured with a straight yard stick, but there's
trouble in other places.  So your father's name was Adam, and he really
bore no other?"

"No, certainly not."

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

The jester coughed violently, and continued  One thing more.  To expect
gratitude is folly, nine times out of ten none is reaped, and he who is
wise thinks only of himself, and usually omits to seek thanks; but every
one ought to be grateful, for it is burdensome to have enemies, and there
is no one we learn to hate more easily, than the benefactor we repay 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 always
praised as the highest virtue, often seemed very puzzling to the boy,
yet many of them were impressed on his young soul.  He followed the sick
man'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 to
Marseilles, and from there by ship to Savona, but before he reached the
old city of the popes, he grew so feeble, that Moor scarcely hoped to
bring him alive to the goal of his journey.

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

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

He had originally been destined for the ecclesiastical profession, but
though he surpassed all the other pupils in the school, he was deprived
of 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 way
through his career as a student, with great difficulty.

"How shabby the broad top of my cap often was!" he said.  "I was so much
ashamed of it.  I am so small.  Dear me, anybody could see my head, and
could not help noticing all the worn places in the velvet, if he cast his
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 my poodledog
went out and stole a sausage for me from the butcher."

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

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

He liked to pretend that he despised the world and hated men, but this
assertion could not be taken literally, and was to be regarded in a
general, rather than a special sense, for every beautiful thing in the
world kindled eager enthusiasm in his heart, and he remained kindly
disposed 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 the
person upon whom he sits in judgment, and how many fools, like me, fancy
themselves great, when they stand on tiptoe, and find fault even with the
works of God!  'The world is evil,' says the philosopher, and whoever
listens to him, probably thinks carelessly: 'Hear, hear!  He would have
made it better than our Father in heaven.'  Let me have my pleasure.
I'm only a little man, but I deal in great things.  To criticise a single
insignificant human creature, seems to me scarcely worth while, but when
we pronounce judgment on all humanity and the boundless universe, we can
open our mouths-wonderfully wide!"

Once his heart had been filled with love for a beautiful girl, but she
had scornfully rejected his suit and married another.  When she was
widowed, and he found her in dire poverty, he helped her with a large
share of his savings, and performed this kind service again, when the
second 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 the only
sensible course.  To practise unselfish generosity he regarded as a
subtle, exquisite pleasure, which he ventured to allow himself, because
he desired nothing more; others, to whom he did not grudge a prosperous
career, he must warn against such folly.

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

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

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

In the night Ulrich heard him groaning louder than usual, and starting
up, raised him, as he was in the habit of doing when the poor little man
was tortured by difficulty of breathing.  But this time Pellicanus did
not swear and scold, but remained perfectly still, and when his heavy
head fell like a pumpkin on the boy's breast, he was greatly terrified
and ran to call the artist.

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

Pellicanus probably noticed the artist's troubled glance, for he tried to
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 the left, but
his eyes expressed everything he desired to say.  In this way several
minutes elapsed, then Pellicanus smiled, and with a sorrowful gaze,
though a mischievous expression hovered around his mouth, scanned:

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

"Is it agreed, Navarrete, Ulrich Navarrete?  I've made the Latin easy for
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 eyes
became 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 one
could understand what he said.  Towards morning, the sun of Provence was
shining warmly and brightly into the room and on his bed, when he
suddenly threw his arm above his head, and half speaking, half singing to
Hans Eitelfritz's melody, let fall from his lips the words: "In fortune,
good fortune."  A few minutes after he was dead.

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

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




ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

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






A WORD, ONLY A WORD

By Georg Ebers

Volume 3.



CHAPTER XIV.

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

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

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

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

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

Moor looked up, and answered smiling:  "These are only young artists, six
sisters, each one of whom is as dear to me as if she were my own
daughter.  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't
written Sophonisba on any of them."

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

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

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

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

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

At Fuenterrabia, the first Spanish city they reached, the artist received
many honors, and a splendid troop of cavalry escorted him thence to
Madrid.

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

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

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

During the first few days the artist's reception-room resembled a bee-
hive; for aristocratic men and women, civil and ecclesiastical
dignitaries passed in and out, pages and lackeys brought flowers, baskets
of fruits, and other gifts.  Every one attached to the court knew in what
high favor the artist was held by His Majesty, and therefore hastened to
win his good-will by attentions and presents.  Every hour there was
something new and astonishing to be seen, but the artist himself most
awakened the boy's surprise.

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

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

On this occasion Ulrich saw the king.  Dressed as a page he followed
Moor, carrying the picture the latter intended for a gift to his royal
host.

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

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

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

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

A week after taking possession of the apartments in the treasury, the
servants received orders to refuse admittance to every one, without
distinction of rank or person, informing them that the artist was engaged
in working for His Majesty.

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

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

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

Old Cavaliere Anguisciola was a nobleman of aristocratic family, who had
squandered his large patrimony, and now, as he was fond of saying, lived
day by day "by trusting God."  A large portion of his oldest daughter's
earnings he wasted at the gaming table with dissolute nobles, relying
with happy confidence upon the talent displayed also by his younger
children, and on what he called "trust in God."  The gay, clever Italian
was everywhere a welcome guest, and while Sophonisba toiled early and
late, often without knowing how she was to obtain suitable food and
clothing for her sisters and herself, his life was a series of banquets
and festivals.  Yet the noble girl retained the joyous courage inherited
from her father, nay, more--even in necessity she did not cease to take a
lofty view of art, and never permitted anything to leave her studio till
she considered it finished.

At first Moor watched her silently, then he invited her to work in his
studio, 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 her
domestic life thus afforded touched him and brought her nearer and nearer
to his heart.

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

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

When she had discharged the duties imposed upon her by her attendance
upon 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 if
her soul had been steeped in purity and was effulgent.  Moor had hoped to
find her sisters with her in Madrid, but the old Cavaliere had taken them
away with him to Italy.  His "trust in God" was rewarded, for he had
inherited a large fortune.  What should he do longer in Madrid!  To
entertain the stiff, grave Spaniards and move them to laughter, was a far
less pleasing occupation than to make merry with gay companions and be
entertained himself at home.

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

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

Adjoining the studio was a smaller apartment, separated from the former
room by a corridor, that could be closed, and by a heavy curtain.  Here a
table, at which the five girls might easily have found room, was placed
in 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 statecraft and the
restraints of court etiquette, King Philip gladly retired, yielding
himself to the only genial impulse of his gloomy soul, and enjoyed the
noble forms of art.

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

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

Philip was all and all to himself; caring nothing for others, he did not
deem it necessary, that they should share his pleasures.  If anything
outside 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 and
modern busts and statues were arranged in appropriate places, and Moor
was at liberty to choose from among them, for the king permitted him to
do what was granted to no one else.

He often summoned him to the Titian Hall, and still more frequently rang
the bell and entered the connecting corridor, accessible to himself
alone, which led from the rooms devoted to art and science to the
treasury and studio, where he spent hours with Moor.  Ulrich eagerly
devoted himself to the work, and his master watched his labor like an
attentive, strict, and faithful teacher; meantime he carefully guarded
against overtaxing the boy, allowed him to accompany him on many a ride,
and advised him to look about the city.  At first the lad liked to stroll
through the streets and watch the long, brilliant processions, or timidly
shrink back when closely-muffled men, their figures wholly invisible
except the eyes and feet, bore a corpse along, or glided on mysterious
missions through the streets.  The bull-fights might have bewitched him,
but be loved horses, and it grieved him to see the noble animal, wounded
and killed.

He soon wearied of the civil and religious ceremonies, that might be
witnessed nearly every day, and which always exerted the same power of
attraction to the inhabitants of Madrid.  Priests swarmed in the Alcazar,
and soldiers belonging to every branch of military service, daily guarded
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 court
uniforms, princes and princesses he saw daily in the court-yards, on the
stairs, and in the park of the palace.

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XV.

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

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

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

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

She was scarcely fourteen, a dear little creature, with awkward limbs,
and a face so wonderfully changeful in expression, that it could not fail
to be by turns pretty and repellent.  She always had beautiful eyes; all
her other features were unformed, and might grow charming or exactly the
reverse.  When her work engrossed her attention, she bit her protruded
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 help being pleased.

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

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

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

Receiving instruction with others urged Ulrich to rivalry, and also
improved his knowledge of Spanish.  But he soon became familiar with the