he Spanish artist appeared at noon, but did not come alone, and the
man, who preceded him, was no less important a personage than the king
himself.

With throbbing heart, unable to utter a single word, Ulrich opened
the door of the studio, bowing low before the monarch, who without
vouchsafing him a single glance, walked solemnly to the painting.

Coello drew aside the cloth that covered it, and the sarcastic chuckle
Ulrich had so often heard instantly echoed from the king's lips; then
turning to Coello he angrily exclaimed, loud enough to be heard by the
young artist:

"Scandalous! Insulting, offensive botchwork! A Bacchante in the garb of
a Madonna! And the child! Look at those legs! When he grows up, he may
become a dancing-master. He who paints such Madonnas should drop his
colors! His place is the stable--among refractory horses."

Coello could make no reply, but the king, glancing at the picture again,
cried wrathfully:

"A Christian's work, a Christian's! What does the reptile who painted
this know of the mother, the Virgin, the stainless lily, the thornless
rose, the path by which God came to men, the mother of sorrow, who
bought the world with her tears, as Christ did with His sacred blood. I
have seen enough, more than enough! Escovedo is waiting for me outside!
We will discuss the triumphal arch to-morrow!"

Philip left the studio, the court-artist accompanying him to the door.

When he returned, the unhappy youth was still standing in the same
place, gazing, panting for breath, at his condemned work.

"Poor fellow!" said Coello, compassionately, approaching him; but Ulrich
interrupted, gasping in broken accents:

"And you, you? Your verdict!"

The other shrugged his shoulders and answered with sincere pity:

"His Majesty is not indulgent; but come here and look yourself. I will
not speak of the child, though it.... In God's name, let us leave it as
it is. The picture impresses me as it did the king, and the Madonna--I
grieve to say it, she belongs anywhere rather than in Heaven. How
often this subject is painted! If Meister Antonio, if Moor should see
this...."

"Then, then?" asked Ulrich, his eyes glowing with a gloomy fire.

"He would compel you to begin at the beginning once more. I am sincerely
sorry for you, and not less so for poor Belita. My wife will triumph!
You know I have always upheld your cause; but this luckless work...."

"Enough!" interrupted the youth. Rushing to the picture,