ather's supposed death. Hitherto he had only been
able to imagine him as he had looked in life, but now the vision of him
stretched at full length, stark and pale like the dead Pellicanus, often
rose before his mind.

The artist was a silent man, and understood how to think and speak in
lines and colors, better than in words. He only became eloquent and
animated, when the conversation turned upon subjects connected with his
art.

At Toulouse he purchased three new horses, and engaged the same number
of French servants, then went to a jeweller and bought many articles. At
the inn he put the chains and rings he had obtained, into pretty little
boxes, and wrote on them in neat Gothic characters with special care:
"Helena, Anna, Minerva, Europa and Lucia;" one name on each.

Ulrich watched him and remarked that those were not his children's
names.

Moor looked up, and answered smiling: "These are only young artists,
six sisters, each one of whom is as dear to me as if she were my own
daughter. I hope we shall find them in Madrid, one of them, Sophonisba,
at any rate."

"But there are only five boxes," observed the boy, "and you haven't
written Sophonisba on any of them."

"She is to have something better," replied his patron smiling. "My
portrait, which I began to paint yesterday, will be finished here. Hand
me the mirror, the maul-stick, and the colors."

The picture was a superb likeness, absolutely faultless. The pure brow
curved in lofty arches at the temples, the small eyes looked as clear
and bright as they did in the mirror, the firm mouth shaded by a thin
moustache, seemed as if it were just parting to utter a friendly word.
The close-shaven beard on the cheeks and chin rested closely upon the
white ruff, which seemed to have just come from under the laundresses'
smoothing-iron.

How rapidly and firmly the master guided his brush! And Sophonisba, whom
Moor distinguished by such a gift, how was he to imagine her? The other
five sisters too! For their sakes he first anticipated with pleasure the
arrival at Madrid.

In Bayonne the artist left the baggage-wagon behind. His luggage was
put on mules, and when the party of travellers started, it formed an
imposing caravan.

Ulrich expressed his surprise at such expenditure, and Moor answered
kindly: "Pellicanus says: 'Among fools one must be a fool.' We enter
Spain as the king's guests, and courtiers have weak eyes, and only
notice people who give themselves