He was now eighteen, but looked older, and the grave expression on his brow and in his eyes, gave him the appearance of a man.

He had rushed straight forward, without asking himself whither; now he reached a busy street and checked his career.  Was he in Madrid?  Yes, for there rose the blue peaks of the Guadarrama chain, which he knew well.  There were the little trees at which the denizen of the Black Forest had often smiled, but which to-day looked large and stately.  Now a toreador, whom he had seen more than once in the arena, strutted past.  This was the gate, through which he had ridden out of the city beside the master’s calash.

He must go into the town, but what should he do there?

Had they restored the master’s gold with the clothes?

He searched the pockets, but instead of the purse, found only a few large silver coins, which he knew he had not possessed at the time of his capture.

In a cook-shop behind the gate he enjoyed some meat and wine after his long deprivation, and after reflecting upon his situation he decided to call on Don Fabrizio.

The porter refused him admittance, but after he had mentioned his name, kindly invited him into the porch, and told him that the baron and his wife were in the country with the Marquesa Romero.  They were expected back on Tuesday, and would doubtless receive him then, for they had already asked about him several times.  The young gentleman probably came from some foreign country; it was the custom to wear hats in Madrid.

Ulrich now noticed what he lacked, but before leaving, to supply the want, asked the porter, if he knew what had become of Master Moor.

Safe!  He was safe!  Several weeks before Donna Sophonisba had received a letter sent from Flanders, and Ulrich’s companion was well informed, for his wife served the baroness as ‘doncella’.

Joyously, almost beside himself with pure, heart-cheering delight, the released prisoner hurried away, bought himself a new cap, and then sought the Alcazar.

Before the treasury, in the place of old Santo, Carmen’s father, stood a tall, broad portero, still a young man, who rudely refused him admittance.

“Master Moor has not been here for a long time,” said the gate-keeper angrily:  “Artists don’t wear ragged clothes, and if you don’t wish to see the inside of a guard-house—­a place you are doubtless familiar with—­you had better leave at once.”

Ulrich answered the gate-keeper’s insulting taunts indignantly and proudly, for he was no longer the yielding boy of former days, and the quarrel soon became serious.

Just then a dainty little woman, neatly dressed for the evening promenade, with the mantilla on her curls, a pomegranate blossom in her hair, and another on her bosom, came out of the Alcazar.  Waving her fan, and tripping over the pavement like a wag-tail, she came directly towards the disputants.