ooting. If
today . . . but Ulrich did not have much time for such reflections; a few
minutes after Pablo left, the door was torn open, and the whole Coello
family rushed joyously to meet him; Isabella first. Sanchez followed
close behind her, then came the artist, next his stout, clumsy wife, whom
Ulrich had rarely seen, because she usually spent the whole day lying on
a couch with her lap-dog. Last of all appeared the duenna Catalina, a
would-be sweet smile hovering around her lips.

The reception given him by the others was all the more joyous and
cordial.

Isabella laid her hands on his arm, as if she wanted to feel that it was
really he; and yet, when she looked at him more closely, she shook her
head as if there was something strange in his appearance. Sanchez
embraced him, whirling him round and round, Coello shook hands, murmuring
many kind words, and the mother turned to the duenna, exclaiming:

"Holy Virgin! what has happened to the pretty boy? How famished he looks!
Go to the kitchen instantly, Catalina, and tell Diego to bring him
food--food and drink."

At last they all pulled and pushed him into the sitting-room, where the
mother immediately threw herself on the couch again; then the others
questioned him, making him tell them how he had fared, whence he came,
and many other particulars.

He was no longer hungry, but Senora Petra insisted upon his seating
himself near her couch and eating a capon, while he told his story.

Every face expressed sympathy, approval, pity, and at last Coello said:

"Remain here, Navarrete. The king longs for Moor, and you will be as safe
with us, as if you were in Abraham's lap. We have plenty for you to do.
You come to me as opportunely, as if you had dropped from the skies. I
was just going to write to Venice for an assistant. Holy Jacob! You can't
stay so, but thanks to the Madonna and Moor, you are not poor. We have
ample means, my young sir. Donna Sophonisba gave me a hundred zechins for
you; they are lying in yonder chest, and thank Heaven, haven't grown
impatient by waiting. They are at your disposal. Your master, my master,
the noble master of all portrait-painters, our beloved Moor arranged it.
You won't go about the streets in this way any longer. Look, Isabella;
this sleeve is hanging by two strings, and the elbow is peering out of
the window. Such a dress is airy enough, certainly. Take him to the
tailor's at once, Sanchez, Oliverio, or . . . but no, no; we'l