a prosperous
career, he must warn against such folly.

There was a keen, bitter expression on his large, thin face, and whoever
saw him for the first time might easily have supposed him to be a wicked,
spiteful man. He knew this, and delighted in frightening the men and
maid-servants at the taverns by hideous grimaces--he boasted of being
able to make ninety-five different faces--until the artist's old valet at
last dreaded him like the "Evil One."

He was particularly gay in Avignon, for he felt better than he had done
for a long time, and ordered a seat to be engaged for him in a vehicle
going to Marseilles.

The evening before their separation, he described with sparkling
vivacity, the charms of the Ligurian coast, and spoke of the future as if
he were sure of entire recovery and a long life.

In the night Ulrich heard him groaning louder than usual, and starting
up, raised him, as he was in the habit of doing when the poor little man
was tortured by difficulty of breathing. But this time Pellicanus did not
swear and scold, but remained perfectly still, and when his heavy head
fell like a pumpkin on the boy's breast, he was greatly terrified and ran
to call the artist.

Moor was soon standing at the head of the sick-bed, holding a light, so
that its rays could fall upon the face of the gasping man. The latter
opened his eyes and made three grimaces in quick succession--very comical
ones, yet tinged with sadness.

Pellicanus probably noticed the artist's troubled glance, for he tried to
nod to him, but his head was too heavy and his strength too slight, so he
only succeeded in moving it first to the right and then to the left, but
his eyes expressed everything he desired to say. In this way several
minutes elapsed, then Pellicanus smiled, and with a sorrowful gaze,
though a mischievous expression hovered around his mouth, scanned:

"'Mox erit' quiet and mute, 'gui modo' jester 'erat'." Then he said as
softly as if every tone came, not from his chest, but merely from his
lips--

"Is it agreed, Navarrete, Ulrich Navarrete? I've made the Latin easy for
you, eh? Your hand, boy. Yours, too, dear, dear master . . . Moor,
Ethiopian--Blackskin. . . ."

The words died away in a low, rattling sound, and the dying man's eyes
became glazed, but it was several hours before he drew his last breath.

A priest gave him Extreme Unction, but consciousness did not return.

After the holy man had left him, his lips moved in