language in another way, for one day, as he came out of the stables,
a thin man in black, priestly robes, advanced towards him, looked
searchingly into his face, then greeted him as a countryman, declaring
that it made him happy to speak his dear native tongue again.  Finally,
he invited the "artist" to visit him.  His name was Magister Kochel and
he lodged with the king's almoner, for whom he was acting as clerk.

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

He soon thought that by so doing he was accomplishing something good and
useful, for the former offered to teach him to write and speak Spanish.
Ulrich was glad to have escaped from school, and declined this proposal;
but when the German suggested that he should content himself with
speaking the language, assuring him that it could be accomplished without
any difficulty, Ulrich consented and went daily at twilight to the
Magister.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weeks and months elapsed.

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

Sophonisba Anguisciola still spent all her leisure hours in the studio,
painting or conversing with Moor.  Various dignitaries and grandees also
went in and out of the studio, and among them frequently appeared, indeed
usually when Sophonisba was present, her faithful admirer Don Fabrizio di
Moncada.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He often thought, that he would gladly resign his untroubled, luxurious
life, and all the other gifts of Fortune, if he could only succeed in
accomplishing what Moor desired him to attain in art.  He knew and felt
that this was the right goal; but one thing was certain, he could never
attain it with pencil and charcoal.  What his soul dreamed, what his
mental vision beheld was colored.  Drawing, perpetual drawing, became
burdensome, repulsive, hateful; but with palette and brush in his hand he
could not fail to become an artist, perhaps an artist like Titian.

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

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

The girl was always to be found here, for her father's room was very
dark, and she was compelled to embroider priestly robes from morning till
night.  This pursuit brought in money, which was put to an excellent use
by the old man, who offered sacrifices to his own comfort at the cook-
shop, and enjoyed fish fried in oil with his Zamora wine.  The better her
father's appetite was, the more industriously the daughter was obliged
to embroider.  Only on great festivals, or when an 'Auto-da-fe' was
proclaimed, was Carmen permitted to leave the palace with her old aunt;
yet she had already found suitors.  Nineteen-year-old Sanchez did not
indeed care for her hand, but merely for her love, and when it began to
grow dusk, he stationed himself on the balcony which he had discovered,
made signs to her, and flung flowers or bonbons on her table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The gate-keeper's little daughter was a pretty child, and Ulrich had no
fear of doing what Sanchez ventured.

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

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

The next evening she secretly kissed her fingers to Ulrich.

From this time the young lover preferred to seek the balcony without
Sanchez.  He would gladly have called a few tender words across, or sung
to his lute, but that would not do, for people were constantly passing
to and fro in the court-yard.

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

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

He had learned many things from the master, and as the little figure
rounded into shape, it afforded him so much pleasure, that he could not
leave it, and finished it the third day.

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

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

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

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

Carmen awaited him at the appointed place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ulrich nodded, blushing furiously.

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

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

Scarcely able to control his surprise and joy, be bent over the artist's
hand to kiss it, but the latter withdrew it, gazed steadily into his eyes
with paternal affection, and said: "We will try, my boy, but we must not
give up drawing, for that is the father of our art.  Drawing keeps us
within the bounds assigned to what is true and beautiful.  The morning
you must spend as before; after dinner you shall be rewarded by using
colors."  This plan was followed, and the pupil's first love affair bore
still another fruit--it gave a different form to his relations with
Sanchez.  The feeling that he had stood in his way and abused his
confidence sorely disturbed Ulrich, so he did everything in his power
to please his companion.

He did not see the fair Carmen again, and in a few weeks the appointment
was forgotten, for painting under Moor's instruction absorbed him as
nothing in his life had ever done before, and few things did after.




CHAPTER XVI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Philip had not been in the studio for a long time, but the artist had
reason to expect him; for yesterday the monarch must have received his
letter, requesting that he would graciously grant him permission to leave
Madrid.

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

All present were quickly dismissed, the bolts were drawn and Philip
appeared.

He looked paler than usual, worn and weary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moor now pointed out to the king a picture by his own hand, and after
Philip had gazed at it long and appreciatively, criticising it with
excellent judgment, the artist led him to Ulrich's portrait of
Sophonisba, and asked, not without anxiety: "What does Your Majesty say
to this attempt?"

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

"My pupil, Ulrich Navarrete."

"How long has he been painting?"

"For several months, Sire."

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

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

"He is ambitious, at any rate."

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

"Rather too vehement, I should think."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That must be done in Antwerp."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Those carbuncle eyes!  And a mouth, that looks as if she could eat
nothing but sugar-plums.  I don't know what tickles me to-day.  Give me
the palette.  The outlines are tolerably good, the colors fairly shriek.
But what boy can understand a woman, a woman like your friend!  I'll
paint over the monster, and if the picture isn't Sophonisba, it may serve
for a naval battle."

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

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

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

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

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

"Queer things are done among comrades in art.  The painter's war is over!
Begin the naval battle, Sire, or still better, lend more charm and
delicacy to the corners of the mouth.  The pupil's worst failure is in
the chin; more practised hands might be wrecked on that cliff.  Those
eyes!  Perhaps they sparkled just in that way, but we are agreed in one
thing: the portrait ought not to represent the original at a given
moment, ruled by a certain feeling or engaged in a special act, but
should express the sum of the spiritual, intellectual and personal
attributes of the subject--his soul and person, mind and character-
feelings and nature.  King Philip, pondering over complicated political
combinations, would be a fascinating historical painting, but no
likeness...."

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

There was a hypocritical sweetness in the tone of these words which had
not escaped the artist.

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XVII.

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

He was gazing anxiously at the floor, for he had good reason to be
troubled, though the reflection that he had been alone with the king, and
the unprecedented act had occurred without witnesses, somewhat soothed
him.  He could not know that a third person, Ulrich, had beheld the
reckless, fateful contest.

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

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

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

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

No dancing had ever been permitted at the court before Philip's marriage
with the French princess, who had been accustomed to greater freedom of
manners; now a ball was sometimes given in the Alcazar.  The first person
who had ventured to dance the gaillarde before the eyes of the monarch
and his horrified courtiers, was Sophonisba--her partner was Duke
Gonzaga.  Strangely enough, the gayest lady at the court was the very
person, who gave the gossips the least occasion for scandal.

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

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

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

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

The morose, bigoted court, hampered by rigid formality, had been invaded
by worldly pleasure, which disported itself unabashed by the presence of
the distinguished prelates in violet and scarlet robes, who paced with
dignified bearing through the apartments, greeting the more prominent
ladies and grandees.

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

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

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

Gayety was stifled, conversation was carried on in whispers.