cessantly, but no one
could understand what he said. Towards morning, the sun of Provence was
shining warmly and brightly into the room and on his bed, when he
suddenly threw his arm above his head, and half speaking, half singing to
Hans Eitelfritz's melody, let fall from his lips the words: "In fortune,
good fortune." A few minutes after he was dead.

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

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

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

No one we learn to hate more easily, than the benefactor
Once laughed at a misfortune, its sting loses its point
To expect gratitude is folly
Whoever condemns, feels himself superior

A WORD, ONLY A WORD

By Georg Ebers

Volume 3.

CHAPTER XIV.

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

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

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

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

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

Moor looked up, and answered smiling: "These are only young artists, six
sisters, each one of whom is as dear to me as if she were my own
daughter. I