whom and whither the master had escaped.
They might come back, burn and spear him; but through him they should
surely learn nothing, nothing at all.  He was scarcely aware that he had
a right to forgiveness; yet he felt he had atoned.

Now he could think of the past again.  The Holy Virgin once more wore his
lost mother's features; his father, Ruth, Pellicanus, Moor looked kindly
at him.  But the brightest light shone into his soul through the darkness
of the dungeon, when he thought of art and his last work.  It stood
before him distinctly in brilliant hues, feature for feature, as on the
canvas; he esteemed himself happy in having painted it, and would
willingly have gone to the rack once, twice, thrice, if he could merely
have obtained the certainty of creating other pictures like this, and
perhaps still nobler, more beautiful ones.

Art!  Art!  Perhaps this was the "word," and if not, it was the highest,
most exquisite, most precious thing in life, beside which everything else
seemed small, pitiful and insipid.  With what other word could God have
created the world, human beings, animals, and plants?  The doctor had
often called every flower, every beetle, a work of art, and Ulrich now
understood his meaning, and could imagine how the Almighty, with the
thirst for creation and plastic hand of the greatest of all artists had
formed the gigantic bodies of the stars, had given the sky its glittering
blue, had indented and rounded the mountains, had bestowed form and color
on everything that runs, creeps, flies, buds and blossoms, and had
fashioned man--created in His own image--in the most majestic form of
all.

How wonderful the works of God appeared to him in the solitude of the
dark dungeon--and if the world was beautiful, was it not the work of His
Divine Art!

Heaven and earth knew no word greater, more powerful, more mighty in
creating beauty than: Art.  What, compared with its gifts, were the
miserable, delusive ones of Fortune: gay clothes, spiced dishes,
magnificent rooms, and friendly glances from beautiful eyes, that smile
on every one who pleases them!  He would blow them all into the air, for
the assistance of Art in joyous creating.  Rather, a thousand times
rather, would he beg his bread, and attain great things in Art, than riot
and revel in good-fortune.

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

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

At last the day arrived on which, through the influence of the Marquesa
Romero, the doors of his dungeon opened.

It was soon after receiving a sharp warning to renounce his obstinacy at
the next examination, that the youth was suddenly informed that he was
free.  The jailer took off his fetters, and helped him exchange his
prison garb for the dress he had worn when captured; then disguised men
threw a sack over his head and led him up and down stairs and across
pavements, through dust and grass, into the little court-yard of a
deserted house in the suburbs.  There they left him, and he soon released
his head from its covering.

How delicious God's free air seemed, as his chest heaved with grateful
joy!  He threw out his arms like a bird stretching its wings to fly, then
he clasped his hands over his brow, and at last, as if a second time
pursued, rushed out of the court-yard into the street.  The passers-by
looked after him, shaking their heads, and he certainly presented a
singular spectacle, for the dress in which he had fled many months
before, had sustained severe injuries on the journey from Avila; his hat
was lost on the way, and had not been replaced by a new one.  The cuffs
and collar, which belonged to his doublet, were missing, and his thick,
fair hair hung in dishevelled locks over his neck and temples; his full,
rosy cheeks had grown thin, his eyes seemed to have enlarged, and during
his imprisonment a soft down had grown on his cheeks and chin.

He was now eighteen, but looked older, and the grave expression on his
brow and in his eyes, gave him the appearance of a man.

He had rushed straight forward, without asking himself whither; now he
reached a busy street and checked his career.  Was he in Madrid?  Yes,
for there rose the blue peaks of the Guadarrama chain, which he knew
well.  There were the little trees at which the denizen of the Black
Forest had often smiled, but which to-day looked large and stately.  Now
a toreador, whom he had seen more than once in the arena, strutted past.
This was the gate, through which he had ridden out of the city beside the
master's calash.

He must go into the town, but what should he do there?

Had they restored the master's gold with the clothes?

He searched the pockets, but instead of the purse, found only a few large
silver coins, which he knew he had not possessed at the time of his
capture.

In a cook-shop behind the gate he enjoyed some meat and wine after his
long deprivation, and after reflecting upon his situation he decided to
call on Don Fabrizio.

The porter refused him admittance, but after he had mentioned his name,
kindly invited him into the porch, and told him that the baron and his
wife were in the country with the Marquesa Romero.  They were expected
back on Tuesday, and would doubtless receive him then, for they had
already asked about him several times.  The young gentleman probably came
from some foreign country; it was the custom to wear hats in Madrid.

Ulrich now noticed what he lacked, but before leaving, to supply the
want, asked the porter, if he knew what had become of Master Moor.

Safe!  He was safe!  Several weeks before Donna Sophonisba had received a
letter sent from Flanders, and Ulrich's companion was well informed, for
his wife served the baroness as 'doncella'.

Joyously, almost beside himself with pure, heart-cheering delight, the
released prisoner hurried away, bought himself a new cap, and then sought
the Alcazar.

Before the treasury, in the place of old Santo, Carmen's father, stood a
tall, broad portero, still a young man, who rudely refused him
admittance.

"Master Moor has not been here for a long time," said the gate-keeper
angrily: "Artists don't wear ragged clothes, and if you don't wish to see
the inside of a guard-house--a place you are doubtless familiar with--you
had better leave at once."

Ulrich answered the gate-keeper's insulting taunts indignantly and
proudly, for he was no longer the yielding boy of former days, and the
quarrel soon became serious.

Just then a dainty little woman, neatly dressed for the evening
promenade, with the mantilla on her curls, a pomegranate blossom in her
hair, and another on her bosom, came out of the Alcazar.  Waving her fan,
and tripping over the pavement like a wag-tail, she came directly towards
the disputants.

Ulrich recognized her instantly; it was Carmen, the pretty embroiderer of
the shell-grotto in the park, now the wife of the new porter, who had
obtained his dead predecessor's office, as well as his daughter.

"Carmen!" exclaimed Ulrich, as soon as he saw the pretty little woman,
then added confidently.  "This young lady knows me."

"I?" asked the young wife, turning up her pretty little nose, and looking
at the tall youth's shabby costume.  "Who are you?"

"Master Moor's pupil, Ulrich Navarrete; don't you remember me?"

"I?  You must be mistaken!"

With these words she shut her fan so abruptly, that it snapped loudly,
and tripped on.

Ulrich shrugged his shoulders, then turned to the porter more
courteously, and this time succeeded in his purpose; for the artist
Coello's body-servant came out of the treasury, and willingly announced
him to his master, who now, as court-artist, occupied Moor's quarters.

Ulrich followed the friendly Pablo into the palace, where every step he
mounted reminded him of his old master and former days.

When he at last stood in the anteroom, and the odor of the fresh oil-
colors, which were being ground in an adjoining room, reached his
nostrils, he inhaled it no less eagerly than, an hour before, he had
breathed the fresh air, of which he had been so long deprived.

What reception could he expect?  The court-artist might easily shrink
from coming in contact with the pupil of Moor, who had now lost the
sovereign's favor.  Coello was a very different man from the Master, a
child of the moment, varying every day.  Sometimes haughty and repellent,
on other occasions a gay, merry companion, who had jested with his own
children and Ulrich also, as if all were on the same footing.  If today
....But Ulrich did not have much time for such reflections; a few minutes
after Pablo left, the door was torn open, and the whole Coello family
rushed joyously to meet him; Isabella first.  Sanchez followed close
behind her, then came the artist, next his stout, clumsy wife, whom
Ulrich had rarely seen, because she usually spent the whole day lying
on a couch with her lap-dog.  Last of all appeared the duenna Catalina,
a would-be sweet smile hovering around her lips.

The reception given him by the others was all the more joyous and
cordial.

Isabella laid her hands on his arm, as if she wanted to feel that it was
really he; and yet, when she looked at him more closely, she shook her
head as if there was something strange in his appearance.  Sanchez
embraced him, whirling him round and round, Coello shook hands, murmuring
many kind words, and the mother turned to the duenna, exclaiming:

"Holy Virgin!  what has happened to the pretty boy?  How famished he
looks!  Go to the kitchen instantly, Catalina, and tell Diego to bring
him food--food and drink."

At last they all pulled and pushed him into the sitting-room, where the
mother immediately threw herself on the couch again; then the others
questioned him, making him tell them how he had fared, whence he came,
and many other particulars.

He was no longer hungry, but Senora Petra insisted upon his seating
himself near her couch and eating a capon, while he told his story.

Every face expressed sympathy, approval, pity, and at last Coello said:

"Remain here, Navarrete.  The king longs for Moor, and you will be as
safe with us, as if you were in Abraham's lap.  We have plenty for you to
do.  You come to me as opportunely, as if you had dropped from the skies.
I was just going to write to Venice for an assistant.  Holy Jacob!
You can't stay so, but thanks to the Madonna and Moor, you are not poor.
We have ample means, my young sir.  Donna Sophonisba gave me a hundred
zechins for you; they are lying in yonder chest, and thank Heaven,
haven't grown impatient by waiting.  They are at your disposal.  Your
master, my master, the noble master of all portrait-painters, our beloved
Moor arranged it.  You won't go about the streets in this way any longer.
Look, Isabella; this sleeve is hanging by two strings, and the elbow is
peering out of the window.  Such a dress is airy enough, certainly.  Take
him to the tailor's at once, Sanchez, Oliverio, or.....  but no, no;
we'll all stay together to-day.  Herrera is coming from the Escurial.
You will endure the dress for the sake of the wearer, won't you, ladies?
Besides, who is to choose the velvet and cut for this young dandy?
He always wore something unusual.  I can still see the master's smile,
provoked by some of the lad's new contrivances in puffs and slashes.  It
is pleasant to have you here, my boy!  I ought to slay a calf, as the
father did for the prodigal son; but we live in miniature.  Instead of
neat-cattle, only a capon!...."

"But you're not drinking, you're not drinking!  Isabella, fill his glass.
Look! only see these scars on his hands and neck.  It will need a great
deal of lace to conceal them.  No, no, they are marks of honor, you must
show them.  Come here, I will kiss this great scar, on your neck, my
brave, faithful fellow, and some day a fair one will follow my example.
If Antonio were only here!  There's a kiss for him, and another, there,
there.  Art bestows it, Art, for whom you have saved Moor!"

A master's kiss in the name of Art!  It was sweeter than the beautiful
Carmen's lips!

Coello was himself an artist, a great painter!  Where could his peers be
found--or those of Moor, and the architect Herrera, who entered soon
after.  Only those, who consecrated their lives to Art, the word of
words, could be so noble, cheerful, kind.

How happy he was when he went to bed!  how gratefully he told his beloved
dead, in spirit, what had fallen to his lot, and how joyously he could
pray!

The next morning he went with a full purse into the city, returning
elegantly dressed, and with neatly-arranged locks.  The peinador had
given his budding moustache a bold twist upward.

He still looked thin and somewhat awkward, but the tall youth promised to
become a stately man.




CHAPTER XX.

Towards noon Coello called Ulrich into Moor's former studio; the youth
could not fail to observe its altered appearance.

Long cartoons, containing sketches of figures, large paintings, just
commenced or half-finished, leaned against the easels; mannikins, movable
wooden horse's heads, and plaster-models stood on the floor, the tables,
and in the windows.  Stuffs, garments, tapestries, weapons hung over the
backs of the chairs, or lay on chests, tables and the stone-floor.
Withered laurel-wreaths, tied with long ribbons, fluttered over the
mantel-piece; one had fallen, dropped over the bald head of Julius
Caesar, and rested on the breast.

The artist's six cats glided about among the easels, or stretched their
limbs on costly velvet and Arabian carpets.

In one corner stood a small bed with silk curtains--the nursery of the
master's pets.  A magnificent white cat was suckling her kittens in it.

Two blue and yellow cockatoos and several parrots swung screaming in
brass hoops before the open window, and Coello's coal-black negro crept
about, cleaning the floor of the spacious apartment, though it was
already noon.  While engaged in this occupation, he constantly shook his
woolly head, displaying his teeth, for his master was singing loudly at
his work, and the gaily-clad African loved music.

What a transformation bad taken place in the Netherlander's quiet,
orderly, scrupulously neat studio!  But, even amid this confusion,
admirable works were created; nay, the Spaniard possessed a much more
vivid imagination, and painted pictures, containing a larger number of
figures and far more spirited than Moor's, though they certainly were not
pervaded by the depth and earnestness, the marvellous fidelity to nature,
that characterized those of Ulrich's beloved master.

Coello called the youth to the easel, and pointing to the sketches in
color, containing numerous figures, on which he was painting, said:

"Look here, my son.  This is to be a battle of the Centaurs, these are
Parthian horsemen;--Saint George and the Dragon, and the Crusaders are
not yet finished.  The king wants the Apocalyptic riders too.  Deuce take
it!  But it must be done.  I shall commence them to-morrow.  They are
intended for the walls and ceiling of the new winter riding-school.  One
person gets along slowly with all this stuff, and I--I.....The orders
oppress me.  If a man could only double, quadruple himself!  Diana of
Ephesus had many breasts, and Cerberus three heads, but only two hands
have grown on my wrists.  I need help, and you are just the person to
give it.  You have had nothing to do with horses yet, Isabella tells me;
but you are half a Centaur yourself.  Set to work on the steeds now, and
when you have progressed far enough, you shall transfer these sketches to
the ceiling and walls of the riding-school.  I will help you perfect the
thing, and give it the finishing touch."

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

But the Spaniard eagerly cut him short:

"I have seen your portrait of Sophonisba.  You are no longer a pupil,
but a rising artist.  Moor is a peerless portrait-painter, and you have
profited greatly by his teaching.  But Art has still higher aims.  Every
living thing belongs to her.  The Venus, the horse....which of those two
pictures won Apelles the greater fame?  Not only copying, but creating
original ideas, leads to the pinnacle of art.  Moor praised your vivid
imagination.  We must use what we possess.  Remember Buonarotti, Raphael!
Their compositions and frescos, have raised their names above all others.
Antonio has tormented you sufficiently with drawing lifeless things.
When you transfer these sketches, many times enlarged, to a broad
surface, you will learn more than in years of copying plaster-casts.  A
man must have talent, courage and industry; everything else comes of its
own accord, and thank Heaven, you're a lucky fellow!  Look at my horses--
they are not so bad, yet I never sketched a living one in my life till I
was commissioned to paint His Majesty on horseback.  You shall have a
better chance.  Go to the stables and the old riding-school to-morrow.
First try noble animals, then visit the market and shambles, and see how
the knackers look.  If you make good speed, you shall soon see the first
ducats you yourself have earned."  The golden reward possessed little
temptation for Ulrich, but he allowed himself to be persuaded by his
senior, and drew and painted horses and mares with pleasure and success,
working with Isabella and Coello's pupil, Felice de Liano, when they
sketched and painted from living models.  When the scaffolding was
erected in the winter riding-school, he went there under the court-
artist's direction, to measure, arrange and finally transfer the
painter's sketches to the wide surfaces.

He did this with increasing satisfaction, for though Coello's sketches
possessed a certain hardness, they were boldly devised and pleased him.

The farther he progressed, the more passionately interested he became in
his work.  To create on a grand scale delighted him, and the fully
occupied life, as well as the slight fatigue after his work was done,
which was sweetened by the joy of labor accomplished, were all beautiful,
enjoyable things; yet Ulrich felt that this was not exactly the right
course, that a steeper, more toilsome path must lead to the height he
desired to attain.

He lacked the sharp spurring to do better and better, the censure of a
master, who was greatly his superior.  Praise for things, which did not
satisfy himself, vexed him and roused his distrust.

Isabella, and--after his return--Sophonisba, were his confidantes.

The former had long felt what he now expressed.  Her young heart clung to
him, but she loved in him the future great artist as much as the man.  It
was certainly no light matter for her to be deprived of Ulrich's society,
yet she unselfishly admitted that her father, in the vast works he had
undertaken, could not be a teacher like Moor, and it would probably be
best for him to seek his old master in Flanders, as soon as his task in
the riding-school was completed.

She said this, because she believed it to be her duty, though sadly and
anxiously; but he joyously agreed with her, for Sophonisba had handed him
a letter from the master, in which the latter cordially invited him to
come to Antwerp.

Don Fabrizio's wife summoned him to her palace, and Ulrich found her as
kind and sympathizing as when she had been a girl, but her gay, playful
manner had given place to a more quiet dignity.

She wished to be told in detail all he had suffered for Moor, how he
employed himself, what he intended to do in the future; and she even
sought him more than once in the riding-school, watched him at his work,
and examined his drawings and sketches.

Once she induced him to tell her the story of his youth.

This was a boon to Ulrich; for, although we keep our best treasures most
closely concealed, yet our happiest hours are those in which, with the
certainty of being understood, we are permitted to display them.

The youth could show this noble woman, this favorite of the Master, this
artist, what he would not have confided to any man, so he permuted her to
behold his childhood, and gaze deep into his soul.

He did not even hide what he knew about the "word"--that he believed he
had found the right one in the dungeon, and that Art would remain his
guiding star, as long as he lived.

Sophonisba's cheeks flushed deeper and deeper, and never had he seen her
so passionately excited, so earnest and enthusiastic, as now when she
exclaimed:

"Yes, Ulrich, yes!  You have found the right word!

"It is Art, and no other.  Whoever knows it, whoever serves it, whoever
impresses it deeply on his soul and only breathes and moves in it, no
longer has any taint of baseness; he soars high above the earth, and
knows nothing of misery and death.  It is with Art the Divinity bridges
space and descends to man, to draw him up ward to brighter worlds.  This
word transfigures everything, and brings fresh green shoots even from the
dry wood of souls defrauded of love and hope.  Life is a thorny rose-
bush, and Art its flower.  Here Mirth is melancholy--Joy is sorrowful
and Liberty is dead.  Here Art withers and--like an exotic--is prevented
perishing outright only by artificial culture.  But there is a land, I
know it well, for it is my home--where Art buds and blossoms and throws
its shade over all the highways.  Favorite of Antonio, knight of the
Word--you must go to Italy!"

Sophonisba had spoken.  He must go to Italy.  The home of Titian!
Raphael!  Buonarotti!  where also the Master went to school.

"Oh, Word, Word!"  he cried exultingly in his heart.  "What other can
disclose, even on earth, such a glimpse of the joys of Paradise."

When he left Sophonisba, he felt as if he were intoxicated.

What still detained him in Madrid?

Moor's zechins were not yet exhausted, and he was sure of the assistance
of the "word" upon the sacred soil of Italy.

He unfolded his plan to Coello without delay, at first modestly, then
firmly and defiantly.  But the court-artist would not let him go.  He
knew how to maintain his composure, and even admitted that Ulrich must
travel, but said it was still too soon.  He must first finish the work he
had undertaken in the riding-school, then he himself would smooth the way
to Italy for him.  To leave him, so heavily burdened, in the lurch now,
would be treating him ungratefully and basely.

Ulrich was forced to acknowledge this, and continued to paint on the
scaffold, but his pleasure in creating was spoiled.  He thought of
nothing but Italy.

Every hour in Madrid seemed lost.  His lofty purposes were unsettled, and
he began to seek diversion for his mind, especially at the fencing-school
with Sanchez Coello.

His eye was keen, his wrist pliant, and his arm was gaining more and more
of his father's strength, so he soon performed extraordinary feats.

His remarkable skill, his reserved nature, and the natural charm of his
manner soon awakened esteem and regard among the young Spaniards, with
whom he associated.

He was invited to the banquets given by the wealthier ones, and to join
the wild pranks, in which they sometimes indulged, but spite of
persuasions and entreaties, always in vain.

Ulrich needed no comrades, and his zechins were sacred to him; he was
keeping them for Italy.

The others soon thought him an odd, arrogant fellow, with whom no
friendly ties could be formed, and left him to his own resources.  He
wandered about the streets at night alone, serenaded fair ladies, and
compelled many gentlemen, who offended him, to meet him in single combat.

No one, not even Sanchez Coello, was permitted to know of these nocturnal
adventures; they were his chief pleasure, stirred his blood, and gave him
the blissful consciousness of superior strength.

This mode of life increased his self-confidence, and expressed itself in
his bearing, which gained a touch of the Spanish air.  He was now fully
grown, and when he entered his twentieth year, was taller than most
Castilians, and carried his head as high as a grandee.

Yet he was dissatisfied with himself, for he made slow progress in his
art, and cherished the firm conviction that there was nothing more for
him to learn in Madrid; Coello's commissions were robbing him of the most
precious time.

The work in the riding-school was at last approaching completion.  It had
occupied far more than the year in which it was to have been finished,
and His Majesty's impatience had become so great, that Coello was
compelled to leave everything else, to paint only there, and put his
improving touches to Ulrich's labor.

The time for departure was drawing near.  The hanging-scaffold, on which
he had lain for months, working on the master's pictures, had been
removed, but there was still something to be done to the walls.

Suddenly the court-artist was ordered to suspend the work, and have the
beams, ladders and boards, which narrowed the space in the picadero,--
[Riding School]--removed.

The large enclosure was wanted during the next few days for a special
purpose, and there were new things for Coello to do.

Don Juan of Austria, the king's chivalrous half-brother, had commenced
his heroic career, and vanquished the rebellious Moors in Granada.  A
magnificent reception was to be prepared for the young conqueror, and
Coello received the commission to adorn a triumphal arch with hastily-
sketched, effective pictures.

The designs were speedily completed, and the triumphal arch erected in
a court-yard of the Alcazar, for here, within the narrow circle of the
court, not publicly, before the whole population, had the suspicious
monarch resolved to receive and honor the victor.

Ulrich had again assisted Coello in the execution of his sketches.
Everything was finished at the right time, and Don Juan's reception
brilliantly carried out with great pomp and dignity, through the whole
programme of a Te Deum and three services, processions, bull-fights, a
grand 'Auto-da-fe', and a tournament.

After this festival, the king again resigned the riding-school to the
artists, who instantly set to work.  Everything was finished except the
small figures at the bottom of the larger pictures, and these could be
executed without scaffolding.

Ulrich was again standing on the ladder, for the first time after this
interruption, and Coello had just followed him into the picadero, when a
great bustle was heard outside.

The broad doors flew open, and the manege was soon filled with knights
and ladies on foot and horseback.

The most brilliant figures in all the stately throng were Don Juan
himself, and his youthful nephew, Alexander Farnese, Prince of Parma.

Ulrich feasted his eyes on the splendid train, and the majestic, haughty,
yet vivacious manner of the conqueror.

Never in his life, he thought, had he seen a more superb youthful figure.
Don Juan stopped directly opposite to him, and bared his head.  The
thick, fair hair brushed back behind his ears, hung in wonderfully soft,
waving locks down to his neck, and his features blended feminine grace
with manly vigor.

As, hat in hand, he swung himself from the saddle, unassisted, to greet
the fair duchess of Medina Celi, there was such a charm in his movements,
that the young artist felt inclined to believe all the tales related of
the successful love affairs of this favorite of fortune, who was the son
of the Emperor Charles, by a German washerwoman.

Don Juan graciously requested his companion to retire to the back of the
manege, assisted the ladies from their saddles and, offering his hand to
the duchess, led her to the dais, then returning to the ring, he issued
some orders to the mounted officers in his train, and stood conversing
with the ladies, Alexander Farnese, and the grandees near him.

Loud shouts and the tramp of horses hoofs were now heard outside of the
picadero, and directly after nine bare-backed horses were led into the
ring, all selected animals of the best blood of the Andalusian breed,
the pearls of all the horses Don Juan had captured.

Exclamations and cries of delight echoed through the building, growing
louder and warmer, when the tenth and last prize, a coal-black young
stallion, dragged the sinewy Moors that led him, into the ring, and
rearing lifted them into the air with him.

The brown-skinned young fellows resisted bravely; but Don Juan turning to
Alexander Farnese, said: "What a superb animal!  but alas, alas, he has a
devilish temper, so we have called him Satan.  He will bear neither
saddle nor rider.  How dare I venture....there he rears again....It is
quite impossible to offer him to His Majesty.  Just look at those eyes,
those crimson nostrils.  A perfect monster!"

"But there cannot be a more beautiful creature! "cried the prince,
warmly.  "That shining black coat, the small head, the neck, the croup,
the carriage of his tail, the fetlocks and hoofs.  Oh, oh, that was
serious!"  The vicious stallion had reared for the third time, pawing
wildly with his fore-legs, and in so doing struck one of the Moors.
Shrieking and wailing, the latter fell on the ground, and directly after
the animal released itself from the second groom, and now dashed freely,
with mighty leaps, around the course, rushing hither and thither as if
mad, kicking furiously, and hurling sand and dust into the faces of the
ladies on the dais.  The latter shrieked loudly, and their screams
increased the animal's furious excitement.  Several gentlemen drew back,
and the master of the horse loudly ordered the other barebacked steeds to
be led away.

Don Juan and Alexander Farnese stood still; but the former drew his
sword, exclaiming, vehemently:

"Santiago!  I'll kill the brute!"

He was not satisfied with words, but instantly rushed upon the stallion;
the latter avoiding him, bounded now backward, now sideways, at every
fresh leap throwing sand upon the dais.

Ulrich could remain on the ladder no longer.

Fully aware of his power over refractory horses, he boldly entered the
ring and walked quietly towards the snorting, foaming steed.  Driving the
animal back, and following him, he watched his opportunity, and as Satan
turned, reached his side and boldly seized his nostrils firmly with his
hand.

Satan plunged more and more furiously, but the smith's son held him as
firmly as if in a vise, breathed into his nostrils, and stroked his head
and muzzle, whispering soothing words.

The animal gradually became quieter, tried once more to release himself
from his tamer's iron hand, and when he again failed, began to tremble
and meekly stood still with his fore legs stretched far apart.

"Bravo!  Bravamente!"  cried the duchess, and praise from such lips
intoxicated Ulrich.  The impulse to make a display, inherited from his
mother, urged him to take still greater risks.  Carefully winding his
left hand in the stallion's mane, he released his nostrils and swung
himself on his back.  Taken by surprise Satan tried to rid himself of his
burden, but the rider sat firm, leaned far over the steed's neck,
stroked--his head again, pressed his flanks and, after the lapse of a few
minutes, guided him merely by the pressure of his thighs first at a walk,
then at a trot over the track.  At last springing off, he patted Satan,
who pranced peacefully beside him, and led him by the bridle to Don Juan.

The latter measured the tall, brave fellow with a hasty glance, and
turning, half to him, half to Alexander Farnese, said:

"An enviable trick, and admirable performance, by my love!"

Then he approached the stallion, stroked and patted his shining neck, and
continued:

"I thank you, young man.  You have saved my best horse.  But for you I
should have stabbed him.  You are an artist?"

"At your service, Your Highness."

"Your art is beautiful, and you alone know how it suits you.  But much
honor, perhaps also wealth and fame, can be gained among my troopers.
Will you enlist?"

"No, Your Highness," replied Ulrich, with a low bow.  "If I were not an
artist, I should like best to be a soldier; but I cannot give up my art."

"Right, right!  Yet....do you think your cure of Satan will be lasting;
or will the dance begin again to-morrow?"

"Perhaps so; but grant me a week, Your Highness, and the swarthy fellows
can easily manage him.  An hour's training like this every morning, and
the work will be accomplished.  Satan will scarcely be transformed into
an angel, but probably will become a perfectly steady horse."

"If you succeed," replied Don Juan, joyously, "you will greatly oblige
me.  Come to me next week.  If you bring good tidings....  consider
meantime, how I can serve you."

Ulrich did not need to consider long.  A week would pass swiftly, and
then--then the king's brother should send him to Italy.  Even his enemies
knew that he was liberal and magnanimous.

The week passed away, the horse was tamed and bore the saddle quietly.
Don Juan received Ulrich's petition kindly, and invited him to make the
journey on the admiral's galley, with the king's ambassador and his
secretary, de Soto.

The very same day the happy artist obtained a bill of exchange on a house
on the Rialto, and now it was settled, he was going to Italy.

Coello was obliged to submit, and his kind heart again showed itself; for
he wrote letters of introduction for Ulrich to his old artist friends in
Venice, and induced the king to send the great Titian a present--which
the ambassador was to deliver.  The court-artist obtained from the latter
a promise to present his pupil Navarrete to the grey-Haired prince of
artists.

Everything was now ready for departure; Ulrich again packed his