amined his drawings and sketches.

Once she induced him to tell her the story of his youth.

This was a boon to Ulrich; for, although we keep our best treasures most
closely concealed, yet our happiest hours are those in which, with the
certainty of being understood, we are permitted to display them.

The youth could show this noble woman, this favorite of the Master, this
artist, what he would not have confided to any man, so he permuted her
to behold his childhood, and gaze deep into his soul.

He did not even hide what he knew about the "word"--that he believed he
had found the right one in the dungeon, and that Art would remain his
guiding star, as long as he lived.

Sophonisba's cheeks flushed deeper and deeper, and never had he seen her
so passionately excited, so earnest and enthusiastic, as now when she
exclaimed:

"Yes, Ulrich, yes! You have found the right word!

"It is Art, and no other. Whoever knows it, whoever serves it, whoever
impresses it deeply on his soul and only breathes and moves in it, no
longer has any taint of baseness; he soars high above the earth, and
knows nothing of misery and death. It is with Art the Divinity bridges
space and descends to man, to draw him up ward to brighter worlds. This
word transfigures everything, and brings fresh green shoots even from
the dry wood of souls defrauded of love and hope. Life is a thorny
rose-bush, and Art its flower. Here Mirth is melancholy--Joy is
sorrowful and Liberty is dead. Here Art withers and--like an exotic--is
prevented perishing outright only by artificial culture. But there is a
land, I know it well, for it is my home--where Art buds and blossoms and
throws its shade over all the highways. Favorite of Antonio, knight of
the Word--you must go to Italy!"

Sophonisba had spoken. He must go to Italy. The home of Titian! Raphael!
Buonarotti! where also the Master went to school.

"Oh, Word, Word!" he cried exultingly in his heart. "What other can
disclose, even on earth, such a glimpse of the joys of Paradise."

When he left Sophonisba, he felt as if he were intoxicated.

What still detained him in Madrid?

Moor's zechins were not yet exhausted, and he was sure of the assistance
of the "word" upon the sacred soil of Italy.

He unfolded his plan to Coello without delay, at first modestly, then
firmly and defiantly. But the court-artist would not let him go. He
knew how to maintain his composure, and even admitted that Ulrich must
tr