He was no longer hungry, but Senora Petra insisted upon his seating himself near her couch and eating a capon, while he told his story.

Every face expressed sympathy, approval, pity, and at last Coello said: 

“Remain here, Navarrete.  The king longs for Moor, and you will be as safe with us, as if you were in Abraham’s lap.  We have plenty for you to do.  You come to me as opportunely, as if you had dropped from the skies.  I was just going to write to Venice for an assistant.  Holy Jacob!  You can’t stay so, but thanks to the Madonna and Moor, you are not poor.  We have ample means, my young sir.  Donna Sophonisba gave me a hundred zechins for you; they are lying in yonder chest, and thank Heaven, haven’t grown impatient by waiting.  They are at your disposal.  Your master, my master, the noble master of all portrait-painters, our beloved Moor arranged it.  You won’t go about the streets in this way any longer.  Look, Isabella; this sleeve is hanging by two strings, and the elbow is peering out of the window.  Such a dress is airy enough, certainly.  Take him to the tailor’s at once, Sanchez, Oliverio, or . . . but no, no; we’ll all stay together to-day.  Herrera is coming from the Escurial.  You will endure the dress for the sake of the wearer, won’t you, ladies?  Besides, who is to choose the velvet and cut for this young dandy?  He always wore something unusual.  I can still see the master’s smile, provoked by some of the lad’s new contrivances in puffs and slashes.  It is pleasant to have you here, my boy!  I ought to slay a calf, as the father did for the prodigal son; but we live in miniature.  Instead of neat-cattle, only a capon! . . .”

“But you’re not drinking, you’re not drinking!  Isabella, fill his glass.  Look! only see these scars on his hands and neck.  It will need a great deal of lace to conceal them.  No, no, they are marks of honor, you must show them.  Come here, I will kiss this great scar, on your neck, my brave, faithful fellow, and some day a fair one will follow my example.  If Antonio were only here!  There’s a kiss for him, and another, there, there.  Art bestows it, Art, for whom you have saved Moor!”

A master’s kiss in the name of Art!  It was sweeter than the beautiful Carmen’s lips!

Coello was himself an artist, a great painter!  Where could his peers be found—­or those of Moor, and the architect Herrera, who entered soon after.  Only those, who consecrated their lives to Art, the word of words, could be so noble, cheerful, kind.

How happy he was when he went to bed! how gratefully he told his beloved dead, in spirit, what had fallen to his lot, and how joyously he could pray!

The next morning he went with a full purse into the city, returning elegantly dressed, and with neatly-arranged locks.  The peinador had given his budding moustache a bold twist upward.

He still looked thin and somewhat awkward, but the tall youth promised to become a stately man.