n like your friend! I'll
paint over the monster, and if the picture isn't Sophonisba, it may
serve for a naval battle."

The king had snatched the palette from the artist's hand, clipped his
brush in the paint, and smiling pleasantly, was about to set to work;
but Moor placed himself between the sovereign and the canvas; exclaiming
gaily: "Paint me, Philip; but spare the portrait."

"No, no; it will do for the naval battle," chuckled the king, and while
he pushed the artist back, the latter, carried away by the monarch's
unusual freedom, struck him lightly on the shoulder with the maul-stick.

The sovereign started, his lips grew white, he drew his small but
stately figure to its full height. His unconstrained bearing was
instantly transformed into one of unapproachable, icy dignity.

Moor felt what was passing in the ruler's mind.

A slight shiver ran through his frame, but his calmness remained
unshaken, and before the insulted monarch found time to give vent to
his indignation in words, he said quickly, as if the offence he had
committed was not worth mentioning:

"Queer things are done among comrades in art. The painter's war is
over! Begin the naval battle, Sire, or still better, lend more charm and
delicacy to the corners of the mouth. The pupil's worst failure is in
the chin; more practised hands might be wrecked on that cliff. Those
eyes! Perhaps they sparkled just in that way, but we are agreed in
one thing: the portrait ought not to represent the original at a given
moment, ruled by a certain feeling or engaged in a special act, but
should express the sum of the spiritual, intellectual and
personal attributes of the subject--his soul and person, mind and
character-feelings and nature. King Philip, pondering over complicated
political combinations, would be a fascinating historical painting, but
no likeness...."

"Certainly not," said the king in a low voice; "the portrait must reveal
the inmost spirit; mine must show how warmly Philip loves art and his
artists. Take the palette, I beg. It is for you, the great Master,
not for me, the overworked, bungling amateur, to correct the work of
talented pupils."

There was a hypocritical sweetness in the tone of these words which had
not escaped the artist.

Philip had long been a master in the school of dissimulation, but Moor
knew him thoroughly, and understood the art of reading his heart.

This mode of expression from the king alarmed him more than a pa