in the brilliant banqueting-hall, was told
by his neighbors with what great men he was permitted to eat, he felt so
timid, small, and insignificant, that he scarcely ventured to touch the
goblets and delicious viands the servants offered.

He looked and listened; distinguishing his old master's name, and
hearing him praised without stint as a portrait-painter. He was
questioned about him, and gave confused answers.

Then the guests rose.

The February sun was shining into the lofty window, where Titian seated
himself to talk more gaily than before with Paolo Cagliari, Veronese,
and other great artists and nobles.

Again Ulrich heard Moor mentioned. Then the old man, from whom the youth
had not averted his eyes for an instant, beckoned, and Cagliari called
him, saying that he, the 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
sever