The young girl gazed at it a long, long time, without a word, only once
pausing in her scrutiny to ask: "And you, you painted this--without the
master?"

Ulrich shook his head, saying, in an undertone: "I suppose he thinks it
is my own work; and yet--I can't understand it."

"But I can," she eagerly exclaimed, still gazing intently at the
portrait.

At last, turning her round, pleasant flee towards him, she looked at him
with tears in her eyes, saying so affectionately that the innermost
depths of Ulrich's heart were stirred: "How glad I am! I could never
accomplish such a work. You will become a great artist, a very
distinguished one, like Moor. Take notice, you surely will. How
beautiful that is!--I can find no words to express my admiration."

At these words the blood mounted to Ulrich's brain, and either the fiery
wine he had drunk, or the delighted girl's prophetic words, or both,
fairly intoxicated him. Scarcely knowing what he said or did, he seized
Isabella's little hand, impetuously raised his curly head, and
enthusiastically exclaimed: "Hear me! your prophecy shall be fulfilled,
Belica; I will be an artist. Art, Art alone! The master said everything
else is vain--trivial. Yes, I feel, I am certain, that the master is
right."

"Yes, yes," cried Isabella; "you must become a great artist."

"And if I don't succeed, if I accomplish nothing more than this...."