The young people vainly waited for the signal to dance.

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

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

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

The clever Italian had shared his anxiety, and as soon as the king
entered another apartment, she beckoned to Moor and held a long
conversation with him in a window-recess.  She advised him to keep
everything in readiness for departure, and she undertook to watch and
give him timely warning.

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

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

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

"More than fifty!"  he thought, a melancholy smile hovering around his
mouth.--"More than fifty, an old husband and father, and yet--yet--good
nourishing bread at home--God bless it, Heaven preserve it!  It only this
girl were my daughter!  How long the human heart retains its functional
power!  Perhaps love is the pith of life--when it dries, the tree withers
too!"

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

When he at last rose and looked at what he had done, he could not help
smiling, and asking himself how it was possible to imitate, with such
trivial materials, the noblest possessions of man: mind and soul.  Both
now spoke to the spectator from these features.  The right words were
easy to the master, and with them he had given the clumsy sentence
meaning and significance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was this really his work?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In Antwerp?"

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

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

Ulrich too was startled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the last verse:

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

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

"Have you gained booty, Hans?"

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

"To take service?"

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

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

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

"Certainly, certainly."

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

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

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

"Where have you been lodged?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At last, turning her round, pleasant flee towards him, she looked at him
with tears in her eyes, saying so affectionately that the innermost
depths of Ulrich's heart were stirred: "How glad I am!  I could never
accomplish such a work.  You will become a great artist, a very
distinguished one, like Moor.  Take notice, you surely will.  How
beautiful that is!--I can find no words to express my admiration."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XVIII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She did not come alone, but leaning on the arm of Don Fabrizio di
Moncada.  During the last hours of the ball the night before she had
voluntarily given the Sicilian her hand, and rewarded his faithful wooing
by accepting his suit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moor bent his head in assent.

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

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

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

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

"But?"

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

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

"Then he can accompany you," said the baron.  "As for your pupil, he must
help us secure your flight, and lead the pursuers on a false trail.  The
king has honored you with a travelling-carriage.--At half-past eleven
order horses to be put to it and leave the Alcazar.  When you arrive
before our palace, stop it, alight, and remain with me.  Ulrich, whom
everybody knows--who has not noticed the handsome, fair-haired lad in his
gay clothes--will stay with the carriage and accompany it along the road
towards Burgos, as far as it goes.  A better decoy than he cannot be
imagined, and besides he is nimble and an excellent horseman.  Give him
your own steed, the white Andalusian.  If the blood-hounds should
overtake him...."

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

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

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

"Let us maintain our self-control!"  cried the Netherlander.  "I do not
rely upon the king's mercy, but perhaps in the decisive hour, he will
remember what we have been to each other; if Ulrich, on the contrary,
robs the irritated lion of his prey and is seized...."

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

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

"Open the door!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don Fabrizio turned away, while she bade Moor farewell.

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

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

"And you, you!"  sobbed the girl.

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




CHAPTER XIX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His body was granted a week's rest, but during this horrible week he did
not cease to upbraid himself as a traitor, and execrate the fate which
had used him a second time to hurl a friend and benefactor into ruin.
He cursed himself, and when he thought of the "word" "fortune, fortune!"
he gnashed his teeth scornfully and clenched his fist.

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

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

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

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

Ulrich rejoiced in his scars, for on the rack and in the Spanish boot,
on nails, and the pointed bench, in the iron necklace and with the
stifling helmet on his head, he had resolutely refused to betray through