e 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 incessantly, but no one
could understand what he said. Towards morning, the sun of Provence
was shining warmly and brightly into the room and on his bed, when he
suddenly threw his arm above his head, and half speaking, half singing
to Hans Eitelfritz's melody, let fall from his lips the words: "In
fortune, good fortune." A few minutes after he was dead.

Moor closed his eyes. Ulrich knelt weeping beside the bed, and kissed
his poor friend's cold hand.

When he rose, the artist was gazing with silent reverence at the
jester's features; Ulrich followed his eyes, and imagined he was
standing in the presence of a miracle, for the harsh, bitter, troubled
face had obtained a new expression, and was now the countenance of a
peaceful, kindly man, who had fallen asleep with pleasant memories in
his heart.

CHAPTER XIV.

For the first time in his life Ulrich had witnessed the death of a human
being.

How often he had laughed at the fool, or thought his words absurd and
wicked;--but the dead man inspired him with respect, and the thought of
the old jester's corpse exerted a far deeper and more lasting influence
upon him, than his f