“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 imprudence and his thoughtlessness are to blame, should be revenged on me.  It comforts us to atone for a wrong.  Whether you save me, Ulrich, or I perish—­no matter; you are and always will be, my dear, faithful friend.”

Ulrich threw himself sobbing on the artist’s breast, and when he learned what was required of him, fairly glowed with delight and eagerness for action; he thought no greater joy could befall him than to die for the Master.

As the bell of the palace-chapel was ringing for evening service, Sophonisba was obliged to leave her friend; for it was her duty to attend the nocturnus with the queen.

Don Fabrizio turned away, while she bade Moor farewell.

“If you desire my happiness, make him happy,” the artist whispered; but she could find no words to reply, and only nodded silently.

He drew her gently towards him, kissed her brow, and said:  “There is a hard and yet a consoling word Love is divine; but still more divine is sacrifice.  To-day I am both your friend and father.  Remember me to your sisters.  God bless you, child!”

“And you, you!” sobbed the girl.

Never had any human being prayed so fervently for another’s welfare in the magnificent chapel of the Alcazar, as did Sophonisba Anguisciola on this evening.  Don Fabrizio’s betrothed bride also pleaded for peace and calmness in her own heart, for power to forget and to do her duty.

CHAPTER XIX.

Half an hour before midnight Moor entered the calash, and Ulrich Navarrete mounted the white Andalusian.

The artist, deeply agitated, had already taken leave of his protege in the studio, had given him a purse of gold for his travelling-expenses and any other wants, and told him that he would always find with him in Flanders a home, a father, love, and instruction in his art.