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Word Only a Word, a — Volume 03 by Georg Ebers
page 29 of 84 (34%)
"Old man, old man? A youth, a man, a vigorous man. How soon he will be
ninety, and yet--yet; who will equal him?"

As he uttered the last words, the monarch stopped before Sophonisba's
portrait, and pointing to it with the scornful chuckle peculiar to him,
continued gaily:

"There the answer meets me directly. That red! The Venetian's laurels
seem to have turned your high flown pupil's head. A hideous picture!"

"It doesn't seem so bad to me," replied Moor. "There is even something
about it I like."

"You, you?" cried Philip. "Poor Sophonisba!"

"Those carbuncle eyes! And a mouth, that looks as if she could eat
nothing but sugar-plums. I don't know what tickles me to-day. Give me
the palette. The outlines are tolerably good, the colors fairly shriek.
But what boy can understand a woman, a woman 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.
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