d, and two
months were allowed him for the work. There was a studio in the Casa
del Campo, he could paint there and need only promise never to visit the
Alcazar before the completion of the work.

Ulrich consented. Isabella must be his. Scorn for scorn!

She should learn which was the stronger.

He knew not whether he loved or hated her, but her resistance had
passionately inflamed his longing to call her his. He was determined,
by summoning all his powers, to create a masterpiece. What Titian had
approved must satisfy a Coello! so he began the task.

A strong impulse urged him to sketch boldly and without long
consideration, the picture of the Madonna, as it had once lived in his
soul, but he restrained himself, repeating the warning words which had
so often been dinned into his ears: Draw, draw!

A female model was soon found; but instead of trusting his eyes and
boldly reproducing what he beheld, he measured again and again, and
effaced what the red pencil had finished. While painting his courage
rose, for the hair, flesh, and dress seemed to him to become true to
nature and effective. But he, who in better times had bound himself
heart and soul to Art and served her with his whole soul, in this
picture forced himself to a method of work, against which his inmost
heart rebelled. His model was beautiful, but he could read nothing
in the regular features, except that they were fair, and the lifeless
countenance became distasteful to him. The boy too caused him great
trouble, for he lacked appreciation of the charm of childish innocence,
the spell of childish character.

Meantime he felt great secret anxiety. The impulse that moved his brush
was no longer the divine pleasure in creation of former days, but dread
of failure, and ardent, daily increasing love for Isabella.

Weeks elapsed.

Ulrich lived in the lonely little palace to which he had retired,
avoiding all society, toiling early and late with restless, joyless
industry, at a work which pleased him less with every new day.

Don Juan of Austria sometimes met him in the park. Once the Emperor's
son called to him:

"Well, Navarrete, how goes the enlisting?"

But Ulrich would not abandon his art, though he had long doubted its
omnipotence. The nearer the second month approached its close, the more
frequently, the more fervently he called upon the "word," but it did not
hear.

When it grew dark, a strong impulse urged him to go to the city, seek
brawl