ew minutes the gentlemen stood erect, and the ladies rose
again, but even the oldest duchesses were not allowed the privilege of
sitting in their sovereign's presence.

Gayety was stifled, conversation was carried on in whispers.

The young people vainly waited for the signal to dance.

It was long since Philip had been so proudly contemptuous, so morose as
he was to-night. Experienced courtiers noticed that His Majesty held his
head higher than usual, and kept out of his way. He walked as if engaged
in scrutinizing the frescos on the ceiling, but nothing that he wished
to see escaped his notice, and when he perceived Moor, he nodded
graciously and smiled pleasantly upon him for a moment, but did not, as
usual, beckon him to approach.

This did not escape the artist or Sophonisba, whom Moor had informed of
what had occurred.

He trusted her as he did himself, and she deserved his confidence.

The clever Italian had shared his anxiety, and as soon as the king
entered another apartment, she beckoned to Moor and held a long
conversation with him in a window-recess. She advised him to keep
everything in readiness for departure, and she undertook to watch and
give him timely warning.

It was long after midnight, when Moor returned to his rooms. He sent the
sleepy servant to rest, and paced anxiously to and fro for a short time;
then he pushed Ulrich's portrait of Sophonisba nearer the mantel-piece,
where countless candles were burning in lofty sconces.

This was his friend, and yet it was not. The thing lacking--yes, the
king was right--was incomprehensible to a boy.

We cannot represent, what we are unable to feel. Yet Philip's censure
had been too severe. With a few strokes of the brush Moor expected to
make this picture a soul mirror of the beloved girl, from whom it was
hard, unspeakably hard for him to part.

"More than fifty!" he thought, a melancholy smile hovering around his
mouth.--"More than fifty, an old husband and father, and yet--yet--good
nourishing bread at home--God bless it, Heaven preserve it! It only this
girl were my daughter! How long the human heart retains its functional
power! Perhaps love is the pith of life--when it dries, the tree withers
too!"

Still absorbed in thought, Moor had seized his palette, and at intervals
added a few short, almost imperceptible strokes to the mouth, eyes, and
delicate nostrils of the portrait, before which he sat--but these few
strokes lent charm and intel