bolts were drawn and Philip
appeared.

He looked paler than usual, worn and weary.

Moor greeted him respectfully, saying: "It is long since Your Majesty
has visited the treasury."

"Not 'Your Majesty;' to you I am Philip," replied the king. "And you
wish to leave me, Antonio! Recall your letter! You must not go now."

The sovereign, without waiting for a reply, now burst into complaints
about the tiresome, oppressive duties of his office, the incapacity
of the magistrates, the selfishness, malice and baseness of men. He
lamented that Moor was a Netherlander, and not a Spaniard, called him
the only friend he possessed among the rebellious crew in Holland and
Flanders, and stopped him when he tried to intercede for his countrymen,
though repeatedly assuring him that he found in his society his best
pleasure, his only real recreation; Moor must stay, out of friendship,
compassion for him, a slave in the royal purple.

After the artist had promised not to speak of departure during the next
few days, Philip began to paint a saint, which Moor had sketched, but
at the end of half an hour he threw down his brush. He called himself
negligent of duty, because he was following his inclination, instead of
using his brain and hands in the service of the State and Church. Duty
was his tyrant, his oppressor. When the day-laborer threw his hoe over
his shoulder, the poor rascal was rid of toil and anxiety; but they
pursued him everywhere, night and day. His son was a monster, his
subjects were rebels or cringing hounds. Bands of heretics, like moles
or senseless brutes, undermined and assailed the foundation of the
throne and safeguard of society: the Church. To crush and vanquish
was his profession, hatred his reward on earth. Then, after a moment's
silence, he pointed towards heaven, exclaiming as if in ecstasy: "There,
there! with Him, with Her, with the Saints, for whom I fight!"

The king had rarely come to the treasury in such a mood. He seemed to
feel this too, and after recovering his self-control, said:

"It pursues me even here, I cannot succeed in getting the right coloring
to-day. Have you finished anything new?"

Moor now pointed out to the king a picture by his own hand, and after
Philip had gazed at it long and appreciatively, criticising it
with excellent judgment, the artist led him to Ulrich's portrait of
Sophonisba, and asked, not without anxiety: "What does Your Majesty say
to this attempt?"

"Hm!" obse