may become a dancing-master. He who paints such Madonnas should drop his
colors! His place is the stable--among refractory horses."

Coello could make no reply, but the king, glancing at the picture again,
cried wrathfully:

"A Christian's work, a Christian's! What does the reptile who painted
this know of the mother, the Virgin, the stainless lily, the thornless
rose, the path by which God came to men, the mother of sorrow, who bought
the world with her tears, as Christ did with His sacred blood. I have
seen enough, more than enough! Escovedo is waiting for me outside! We
will discuss the triumphal arch to-morrow!"

Philip left the studio, the court-artist accompanying him to the door.

When he returned, the unhappy youth was still standing in the same place,
gazing, panting for breath, at his condemned work.

"Poor fellow!" said Coello, compassionately, approaching him; but Ulrich
interrupted, gasping in broken accents:

"And you, you? Your verdict!"

The other shrugged his shoulders and answered with sincere pity:

"His Majesty is not indulgent; but come here and look yourself. I will
not speak of the child, though it.... In God's name, let us leave it as
it is. The picture impresses me as it did the king, and the Madonna--
I grieve to say it, she belongs anywhere rather than in Heaven. How
often this subject is painted! If Meister Antonio, if Moor should see