this...."

"Then, then?" asked Ulrich, his eyes glowing with a gloomy fire.

"He would compel you to begin at the beginning once more. I am sincerely
sorry for you, and not less so for poor Belita. My wife will triumph!
You know I have always upheld your cause; but this luckless work..."

"Enough!" interrupted the youth. Rushing to the picture, he thrust his
maul-stick through it, then kicked easel and painting to the floor.

Coello, shaking his head, watched him, and tried to soothe him with
kindly words, but Ulrich paid no heed, exclaiming:

"It is all over with art, all over. A Dios, Master! Your daughter does
not care for love without art, and art and I have nothing more to do with
each other."

At the door he paused, strove to regain his self-control, and at last
held out his hand to Coello, who was gazing sorrowfully after him.

The artist gladly extended his, and Ulrich, pressing it warmly, murmured
in an agitated, trembling voice:

"Forgive this raving....It is only....I only feel, as if I was bearing
all that had been dear to me to the grave. Thanks, Master, thanks for
many kindnesses. I am, I have--my heart--my brain, everything is
confused. I only know that you, that Isabella, have been kind to me.
and I, I have--it will kill me yet! Good fortune gone! Art gone! A
Dios, treacherous world! A Dios, divine art!"