lectual expression to his pupil's work.

When he at last rose and looked at what he had done, he could not help
smiling, and asking himself how it was possible to imitate, with such
trivial materials, the noblest possessions of man: mind and soul. Both
now spoke to the spectator from these features. The right words were
easy to the master, and with them he had given the clumsy sentence
meaning and significance.

The next morning Ulrich found Moor before Sophonisba's portrait. The
pupil's sleep had been no less restless than the master's, for the
former had done something which lay heavy on his heart.

After being an involuntary witness of the scene in the studio the day
before he had taken a ride with Sanchez and had afterwards gone to
Kochel's to take a lesson. True, he now spoke Spanish with tolerable
fluency and knew something of Italian, but Kochel entertained him so
well, that he still visited him several times a week.

On this occasion, there was no translating. The German first kindly
upbraided him for his long absence, and then, after the conversation had
turned upon his painting and Moor, sympathizingly asked what truth there
was in the rumor, that the king had not visited the artist for a long
time and had withdrawn his favor from him.

"Withdrawn his favor!" Ulrich joyously exclaimed. "They are like
two brothers! They wrestled together to-day, and the master, in all
friendship, struck His Majesty a blow with the maul-stick.... But--for
Heaven's sake!--you will swear--fool, that I am--you will swear not to
speak of it!"

"Of course I will!" Kochel exclaimed with a loud laugh. "My hand upon it
Navarrete. I'll keep silence, but you! Don't gossip about that! Not on
any account! The jesting blow might do the master harm. Excuse me for
to-day; there is a great deal of writing to be done for the almoner."

Ulrich went directly back to the studio. The conviction that he had
committed a folly, nay, a crime, had taken possession of him directly
after the last word escaped his lips, and now tortured him more and
more. If Kochel, who was a very ordinary man, should not keep the
secret, what might not Moor suffer from his treachery! The lad was
usually no prattler, yet now, merely to boast of his master's familiar
intercourse with the king, he had forgotten all caution.

After a restless night, his first thought had been to look at his
portrait of Sophonisba. The picture lured, bewitched, enthralled him
with an i