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,
w