Moor bowed, and Don Fabrizio continued:  “We will start at four o’clock in the morning.  Instead of exchanging vows of love, we held a council of war.  Everything is arranged.  In an hour my servants will come and ask for the portrait of my betrothed bride; instead of the picture, you will put your baggage in the chest.  Before midnight you will come to my apartments.  I have passports for myself, six servants, the equerry, and a chaplain.  Father Clement will remain safely concealed at my sister’s, and you will accompany me in priestly costume.  May we rely upon your consent?”

“With all the gratitude of a thankful heart, but....”

“But?”

“There is my old servant—­and my pupil Ulrich Navarrete.”

“The old man is taciturn, Don Fabrizio!” said Sophonisba.  “If he is forbidden to speak at all....  He is necessary to the Master.”

“Then he can accompany you,” said the baron.  “As for your pupil, he must help us secure your flight, and lead the pursuers on a false trail.  The king has honored you with a travelling-carriage.—­At half-past eleven order horses to be put to it and leave the Alcazar.  When you arrive before our palace, stop it, alight, and remain with me.  Ulrich, whom everybody knows—­who has not noticed the handsome, fair-haired lad in his gay clothes—­will stay with the carriage and accompany it along the road towards Burgos, as far as it goes.  A better decoy than he cannot be imagined, and besides he is nimble and an excellent horseman.  Give him your own steed, the white Andalusian.  If the blood-hounds should overtake him....”

Here Moor interrupted the baron, saying gravely and firmly:  “My grey head will be too dearly purchased at the cost of this young life.  Change this part of your plan, I entreat you.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the Sicilian.  “We have few hours at our command, and if they don’t follow him, they will pursue us, and you will be lost.”

“Yet....”  Moor began; but Sophonisba, scarcely able to command her voice, interrupted:  “He owes everything to—­you.  I know him.  Where is he?”

“Let us maintain our self-control!” cried the Netherlander.  “I do not rely upon the king’s mercy, but perhaps in the decisive hour, he will remember what we have been to each other; if Ulrich, on the contrary, robs the irritated lion of his prey and is seized....”

“My sister shall watch over him,” said the baron but Sophonisba tore open the door, rushed into the studio, and called as loudly as she could:  “Ulrich, Ulrich!  Ulrich!”

The men followed her, but scarcely had they crossed the threshold, when they heard her rap violently at the door of the school-room, and Ulrich asking:  “What is it?”

“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?”