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....”

Here Ulrich suddenly paused, for he remembered that he was going away, perhaps to-morrow, so he continued sadly, in a calmer tone:  “Rely upon it; I will do what I can, and whatever happens, you will rejoice, will you not, if I succeed-and if it should be otherwise....”

“No, no,” she eagerly exclaimed.  “You can accomplish everything, and I—­I; you don’t know how happy it makes me that you can do more than I!”

Again he held out his hand, and as Isabella warmly clasped it, the watchful duenna’s harsh voice cried: 

“What does this mean, Senorita?  To work, I beg of you.  Your father says time is precious.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

Time is precious!  Magister Kochel had also doubtless said this to himself, as soon as Ulrich left him the day before.  He had been hired by a secret power, with which however he was well acquainted, to watch the Netherland artist and collect evidence for a charge—­a gravamen—­against him.

The spying and informing, which he had zealously pursued for years in the service of the Holy Inquisition, he called “serving the Church,” and hoped, sooner or later, to be rewarded with a benefice; but even if this escaped him, informing brought him as large an income as he required, and had become the greatest pleasure, indeed, a necessity of life to him.

He had commenced his career in Cologne as a Dominican friar, and remained in communication with some of his old brethren of the Order.

The monks, Sutor and Stubenrauch, whom Moor had hospitably received in his wagon at the last Advent season but one, sometimes answered Kochel’s letters of enquiry.

The latter had long known that the unusual favor the king showed the artist was an abomination, not only to the heads of the Holy Inquisition, but also to the ambassadors and court dignitaries, yet Moor’s quiet, stainless life afforded no handle for attack.  Soon, however, unexpected aid came to him from a distance.