ndly
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time and had withdrawn his favor from him.

"Withdrawn his favor!"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,