ed kindly
at him. But the brightest light shone into his soul through the darkness
of the dungeon, when he thought of art and his last work. It stood
before him distinctly in brilliant hues, feature for feature, as on
the canvas; he esteemed himself happy in having painted it, and would
willingly have gone to the rack once, twice, thrice, if he could merely
have obtained the certainty of creating other pictures like this, and
perhaps still nobler, more beautiful ones.

Art! Art! Perhaps this was the "word," and if not, it was the highest,
most exquisite, most precious thing in life, beside which everything
else seemed small, pitiful and insipid. With what other word could God
have created the world, human beings, animals, and plants? The doctor
had often called every flower, every beetle, a work of art, and Ulrich
now understood his meaning, and could imagine how the Almighty, with the
thirst for creation and plastic hand of the greatest of all artists
had formed the gigantic bodies of the stars, had given the sky its
glittering blue, had indented and rounded the mountains, had bestowed
form and color on everything that runs, creeps, flies, buds and
blossoms, and had fashioned man--created in His own image--in the most
majestic form of all.

How wonderful the works of God appeared to him in the solitude of the
dark dungeon--and if the world was beautiful, was it not the work of His
Divine Art!

Heaven and earth knew no word greater, more powerful, more mighty in
creating beauty than: Art. What, compared with its gifts, were the
miserable, delusive ones of Fortune: gay clothes, spiced dishes,
magnificent rooms, and friendly glances from beautiful eyes, that smile
on every one who pleases them! He would blow them all into the air,
for the assistance of Art in joyous creating. Rather, a thousand times
rather, would he beg his bread, and attain great things in Art, than
riot and revel in good-fortune.

Colors, colors, canvas, a model like Sophonisba, and success in the
realm of Art! It was for these things he longed, these things made him
yearn with such passionate eagerness for deliverance, liberty.

Months glided by, maturing Ulrich's mind as rapidly as if they had
been years; but his inclination to retire within himself deepened into
intense reserve.

At last the day arrived on which, through the influence of the Marquesa
Romero, the doors of his dungeon opened.

It was soon after receiving a sharp warning to re