gallant Antonio Moor's pupil, must now show what
he could do; the Master, Titian, would give him a task.

A shudder ran through his frame; cold drops of perspiration, extorted by
fear, stood on his brow.

The old man now invited him to accompany his nephew to the studio.
Daylight would last an hour longer. He might paint a Jew; no usurer nor
dealer in clothes, but one of the noble race of prophets, disciples,
apostles.

Ulrich stood before the easel.

For the first time after a long period he again called upon the "word,"
and did so fervently, with all his heart. His beloved dead, who in the
tumult of carnival mirth had vanished from his memory, again rose before
his mind, among them the doctor, who gazed rebukingly at him with his
clear, thoughtful eyes.

Like an inspiration a thought darted through the youth's brain. He could
and would paint Costa, his friend and teacher, Ruth's father.

The portrait he had drawn when a boy appeared before his memory, feature
for feature. A red pencil lay close at hand.

Sketching the outlines with a few hasty strokes, he seized the brush, and
while hurriedly guiding it and mixing the colors, he saw in fancy Costa
standing before him, asking him to paint his portrait.

Ulrich had never forgotten the mild expression of the eyes, the smile
hovering about the delicate lips, and now delineated them as well as he
could. The moments slipped by, and the portrait gained roundness and
life. The youth stepped back to see what it still needed, and once more
called upon the "word" from the inmost depths of his heart; at the same
instant the door opened, and leaning on a younger painter, Titian, with
several other artists, entered the studio.

He looked at the picture, then at Ulrich, and said with an approving
smile: "See, see! Not too much of the Jew, and a perfect apostle! A Paul,
or with longer hair and a little more youthful aspect, an admirable St.
John. Well done, well done! my son!"

Well done, well done! These words from Titian had ennobled his work; they
echoed loudly in his soul, and the measure of his bliss threatened to
overflow, when no less a personage than the famous Paolo Veronese,
invited him to come to his studio as a pupil on Saturday.

Enraptured, animated by fresh hope, he threw himself into his gondola.

Everyone had left the palace, where he lodged with de Soto. Who would
remain at home on the evening of Shrove-Tuesday?

The lonely rooms grew too confined for