ame.

He chose the tallest and most stately of the slender dames of Venice
to lead in the dance, or through the throng of masks and citizens
intoxicated with the mirth of the carnival. Whithersoever he led the
fairest followed.

He wished to enjoy the respite before execution. To forget--to
forget--to indemnify himself for future seasons of sacrifice, dulness,
self-conquest, torment.

Poor little Isabella! Your lover sought to enjoy the sensation of
showing himself to the crowd with the stateliest woman in the company on
his arm! And you, Ulrich, how did you feel when people exclaimed behind
you: "A splendid pair! Look at that couple!"

Amid this ecstasy, he needed no helping word, neither "fortune" nor
"art;" without any magic spell he flew from pleasure to pleasure,
through every 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