ng, and his gait showed no traces of the solemn
gravity, which had become a second nature to him,--on the contrary he was
gay and animated.

But the expression did not suit him; it seemed as if he had donned a
borrowed, foreign garb, in which he was ill at ease and could not move
freely.

Waving a letter in his right hand, he pointed to it with his left,
exclaiming:

"They are coming. This time two marvels at once. Our Saviour praying in
the garden of Gethsemane, and Diana at the Bath. Look, look! Even this is
a treasure. These lines are from Titian's own hand."

"A peerless old man," Moor began; but Philip impetuously interrupted:
"Old man, old man? A youth, a man, a vigorous man. How soon he will be
ninety, and yet--yet; who will equal him?"

As he uttered the last words, the monarch stopped before Sophonisba's
portrait, and pointing to it with the scornful chuckle peculiar to him,
continued gaily:

"There the answer meets me directly. That red! The Venetian's laurels
seem to have turned your high flown pupil's head. A hideous picture!"

"It doesn't seem so bad to me," replied Moor. "There is even something
about it I like."

"You, you?" cried Philip. "Poor Sophonisba!"

"Those carbuncle eyes! And a mouth, that looks as if she could eat
nothing but sugar-plums. I don't know what tickles me to-day. Give me the
palette. The outlines are tolerably good, the colors fairly shriek. But
what boy can understand a woman, a woman like your friend! I'll paint
over the monster, and if the picture isn't Sophonisba, it may serve for a
naval battle."

The king had snatched the palette from the artist's hand, clipped his
brush in the paint, and smiling pleasantly, was about to set to work; but
Moor placed himself between the sovereign and the canvas; exclaiming
gaily: "Paint me, Philip; but spare the portrait."

"No, no; it will do for the naval battle," chuckled the king, and while
he pushed the artist back, the latter, carried away by the monarch's
unusual freedom, struck him lightly on the shoulder with the maul-stick.

The sovereign started, his lips grew white, he drew his small but stately
figure to its full height. His unconstrained bearing was instantly
transformed into one of unapproachable, icy dignity.

Moor felt what was passing in the ruler's mind.

A slight shiver ran through his frame, but his calmness remained
unshaken, and before the insulted monarch found time to give vent to his
indignation in wor