"Open the door!"

Soon after, with pallid face and throbbing heart, he was standing before
the others, asking: "What am I to do?"

"Save your master!" cried Sophonisba. "Are you a contemptible Wight,
or does a true artist's heart beat in your breast? Would you fear to go,
perhaps to your death, for this imperilled man?"

"No, no!" cried the youth as joyously as if a hundred-pound weight had
been lifted from his breast. "If it costs my life, so much the better!
Here I am! Post me where you please, do with me as you will! He has
given me everything, and I--I have betrayed him. I must confess, even
if you kill me! I gossiped, babbled--like a fool, a child--about what
I accidentally saw here yesterday. It is my fault, mine, if they pursue
him. Forgive me, master, forgive me! Do with me what you will. Beat
me, slay me, and I will bless you."

As he uttered the last words, the young artist, raising his clasped hands
imploringly, fell on his knees before his beloved teacher. Moor bent
towards him, saying with grave kindness:

"Rise, poor lad. I am not angry with you."

When Ulrich again stood before him, he kissed his forehead and continued:

"I have not been mistaken in you. Do you, Don Fabrizio, recommend
Navarrete to the Marquesa's protection, and tell him what we desire.
It would scarcely redound to his happiness, if the deed, for which my