Sophonisba had spoken.  He must go to Italy.  The home of Titian!  Raphael!  Buonarotti! where also the Master went to school.

“Oh, Word, Word!” he cried exultingly in his heart.  “What other can disclose, even on earth, such a glimpse of the joys of Paradise.”

When he left Sophonisba, he felt as if he were intoxicated.

What still detained him in Madrid?

Moor’s zechins were not yet exhausted, and he was sure of the assistance of the “word” upon the sacred soil of Italy.

He unfolded his plan to Coello without delay, at first modestly, then firmly and defiantly.  But the court-artist would not let him go.  He knew how to maintain his composure, and even admitted that Ulrich must travel, but said it was still too soon.  He must first finish the work he had undertaken in the riding-school, then he himself would smooth the way to Italy for him.  To leave him, so heavily burdened, in the lurch now, would be treating him ungratefully and basely.

Ulrich was forced to acknowledge this, and continued to paint on the scaffold, but his pleasure in creating was spoiled.  He thought of nothing but Italy.

Every hour in Madrid seemed lost.  His lofty purposes were unsettled, and he began to seek diversion for his mind, especially at the fencing-school with Sanchez Coello.

His eye was keen, his wrist pliant, and his arm was gaining more and more of his father’s strength, so he soon performed extraordinary feats.

His remarkable skill, his reserved nature, and the natural charm of his manner soon awakened esteem and regard among the young Spaniards, with whom he associated.

He was invited to the banquets given by the wealthier ones, and to join the wild pranks, in which they sometimes indulged, but spite of persuasions and entreaties, always in vain.

Ulrich needed no comrades, and his zechins were sacred to him; he was keeping them for Italy.

The others soon thought him an odd, arrogant fellow, with whom no friendly ties could be formed, and left him to his own resources.  He wandered about the streets at night alone, serenaded fair ladies, and compelled many gentlemen, who offended him, to meet him in single combat.

No one, not even Sanchez Coello, was permitted to know of these nocturnal adventures; they were his chief pleasure, stirred his blood, and gave him the blissful consciousness of superior strength.

This mode of life increased his self-confidence, and expressed itself in his bearing, which gained a touch of the Spanish air.  He was now fully grown, and when he entered his twentieth year, was taller than most Castilians, and carried his head as high as a grandee.

Yet he was dissatisfied with himself, for he made slow progress in his art, and cherished the firm conviction that there was nothing more for him to learn in Madrid; Coello’s commissions were robbing him of the most precious time.