rresistible spell.

Was this really his work?

He recognized every stroke of the brush. And yet! Those thoughtful
eyes, the light on the lofty brow, the delicate lips, which seemed
about parting to utter some wise or witty word--he had not painted them,
never, never could he have accomplished such a masterpiece. He became
very anxious. Had "Fortune," which usually left him in the lurch when
creating, aided him on this occasion? Last evening, before he went
to bed, the picture had been very different. Moor rarely painted by
candlelight and he had heard him come home late, yet now--now....

He was roused from these thoughts by the artist, who had been feasting
his eyes a long time on the handsome lad, now rapidly developing into a
youth, as he stood before the canvas as if spellbound. He felt what
was passing in the awakening artist-soul, for a similar incident had
happened to himself, when studying with his old master, Schorel.

"What is the matter?" asked Moor as quietly as usual, laying his hand
upon the arm of his embarrassed pupil. "Your work seems to please you
remarkably."

"It is-I don't know"--stammered Ulrich. "It seems as if in the
night...."

"That often happens," interrupted the master. "If a man devotes
himself earnestly to his profession, and says to himself: 'Art shall be
everything to me, all else trivial interruptions,' invisible powers aid
him, and when he sees in the morning what he has created the day before,
he imagines a miracle has happened."

At these words Ulrich grew red and pale by turns. At last, shaking
his head, he murmured in an undertone: "Yes, but those shadows at
the corners of the mouth--do you see?--that light on the brow, and
there--just look at the nostrils--I certainly did not paint those."

"I don't think them so much amiss," replied Moor. "Whatever friendly
spirits now work for you at night, you must learn in Antwerp to paint in
broad day at any hour."

"In Antwerp?"

"We shall prepare for departure this very day. It must be done with the
utmost privacy. When Isabella has gone, pack your best clothes in the
little knapsack. Perhaps we shall leave secretly; we have remained in
Madrid long enough. Keep yourself always in readiness. No one, do you
hear, no human being, not even the servants, must suspect what is going
on. I know you; you are no babbler."

The artist suddenly paused and turned pale, for men's loud, angry voices
were heard outside the door of the studio.