changing scene, thinking only of the present and asking no questions
about the future.

Like one possessed he plunged into passion's wild whirl. From the embrace
of beautiful arms he rushed to the gaming-table, where the ducats he
flung down soon became a pile of gold; the zechins filled his purse to
overflowing.

The quickly-won treasure melted like snow in the sun, and returned again
like stray doves to their open cote.

The works of art were only enjoyed with drunken eyes--yet, once more the
gracious word exerted its wondrous power on the misguided youth.

On Shrove-Tuesday, the ambassador took Ulrich to the great Titian.

He stood face to face with the mighty monarch of colors, listened to
gracious words from his lips, and saw the nonogenarian, whose tall figure
was scarcely bowed, receive the king's gifts.

Never, never, to the close of his existence could he forget that face!

The features were as delicately and as clearly outlined, as if cut with
an engraver's chisel from hard metal; but pallid, bloodless, untinged by
the faintest trace of color. The long, silver-white beard of the tall
venerable painter flowed in thick waves over his breast, and the eyes,
with which he scanned Ulrich, were those of a vigorous, keen-sighted man.
His voice did not sound harsh, but sad and melancholy; deep sorrow
shadowed his glance, and stamped itself upon the mouth of him, whose
thin, aged hand still ensnared the senses easily and surely with gay
symphonies of color!

The youth answered the distinguished Master's questions with trembling
lips, and when Titian invited him to share his meal, and Ulrich, seated
at the lower end of the table in the brilliant banqueting-hall, was told
by his neighbors with what great men he was permitted to eat, he felt so
timid, small, and insignificant, that he scarcely ventured to touch the
goblets and delicious viands the servants offered.

He looked and listened; distinguishing his old master's name, and hearing
him praised without stint as a portrait-painter. He was questioned about
him, and gave confused answers.

Then the guests rose.

The February sun was shining into the lofty window, where Titian seated
himself to talk more gaily than before with Paolo Cagliari, Veronese, and
other great artists and nobles.

Again Ulrich heard Moor mentioned. Then the old man, from whom the youth
had not averted his eyes for an instant, beckoned, and Cagliari called
him, saying that he, the