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time and had withdrawn his favor from him.

"Withdrawn his favor!"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 irresistible 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