inued sadly, in a calmer tone: "Rely upon
it; I will do what I can, and whatever happens, you will rejoice, will
you not, if I succeed-and if it should be otherwise. . . ."

"No, no," she eagerly exclaimed. "You can accomplish everything, and
I--I; you don't know how happy it makes me that you can do more than I!"

Again he held out his hand, and as Isabella warmly clasped it, the
watchful duenna's harsh voice cried:

"What does this mean, Senorita? To work, I beg of you. Your father says
time is precious."

CHAPTER XVIII.

Time is precious! Magister Kochel had also doubtless said this to
himself, as soon as Ulrich left him the day before. He had been hired by
a secret power, with which however he was well acquainted, to watch the
Netherland artist and collect evidence for a charge--a gravamen--against
him.

The spying and informing, which he had zealously pursued for years in the
service of the Holy Inquisition, he called "serving the Church," and
hoped, sooner or later, to be rewarded with a benefice; but even if this
escaped him, informing brought him as large an income as he required, and
had become the greatest pleasure, indeed, a necessity of life to him.

He had commenced his career in Cologne as a Dominican friar, and remained
in communication with some of his old brethren of the Order.

The monks, Sutor and Stubenrauch, whom Moor had hospitably received in
his wagon at the last Advent season but one, sometimes answered Kochel's
letters of enquiry.

The latter had long known that the unusual favor the king showed the
artist was an abomination, not only to the heads of the Holy Inquisition,
but also to the ambassadors and court dignitaries, yet Moor's quiet,
stainless life afforded no handle for attack. Soon, however, unexpected
aid came to him from a distance.

A letter arrived, dictated by Sutor, and written by Stubenrauch in the
fluent bad Latin used by him and those of his ilk. Among other things it
contained an account of a journey, in which much was said about Moor,
whom the noble pair accused of having a heretical and evil mind. Instead
of taking them to the goal of the journey, as he had promised, he had
deserted them in a miserable tavern by the way-side, among rough, godless
lansquenets, as the mother of Moses abandoned her babe. And such a man as
this, they had heard with amazement at Cologne, was permitted to boast of
the favor of His Most Catholic Majesty, King Philip. Kochel must ta