should drop his
colors! His place is the stable--among refractory horses."

Coello could make no reply, but the king, glancing at the picture again,
cried wrathfully:

"A Christian's work, a Christian's! What does the reptile who painted
this know of the mother, the Virgin, the stainless lily, the thornless
rose, the path by which God came to men, the mother of sorrow, who bought
the world with her tears, as Christ did with His sacred blood. I have
seen enough, more than enough! Escovedo is waiting for me outside! We
will discuss the triumphal arch to-morrow!"

Philip left the studio, the court-artist accompanying him to the door.

When he returned, the unhappy youth was still standing in the same place,
gazing, panting for breath, at his condemned work.

"Poor fellow!" said Coello, compassionately, approaching him; but Ulrich
interrupted, gasping in broken accents:

"And you, you? Your verdict!"

The other shrugged his shoulders and answered with sincere pity:

"His Majesty is not indulgent; but come here and look yourself. I will
not speak of the child, though it. . . . In God's name, let us leave it as
it is. The picture impresses me as it did the king, and the Madonna--I
grieve to say it, she belongs anywhere rather than in Heaven. How often
this subject is painted! If Meister Antonio, if Moor should see this. . . ."

"Then, then?" asked Ulrich, his eyes glowing with a gloomy fire.

"He would compel you to begin at the beginning once more. I am sincerely
sorry for you, and not less so for poor Belita. My wife will triumph! You
know I have always upheld your cause; but this luckless work. . . ."

"Enough!" interrupted the youth. Rushing to the picture, he thrust his
maul-stick through it, then kicked easel and painting to the floor.

Coello, shaking his head, watched him, and tried to soothe him with
kindly words, but Ulrich paid no heed, exclaiming:

"It is all over with art, all over. A Dios, Master! Your daughter does
not care for love without art, and art and I have nothing more to do with
each other."

At the door he paused, strove to regain his self-control, and at last
held out his hand to Coello, who was gazing sorrowfully after him.

The artist gladly extended his, and Ulrich, pressing it warmly, murmured
in an agitated, trembling voice:

"Forgive this raving. . . . It is only . . . I only feel, as if I was bearing
all that had been dear to me to the grave. Thanks, Master, thanks for
many k