Isabella, and—­after his return—­Sophonisba, were his confidantes.

The former had long felt what he now expressed.  Her young heart clung to him, but she loved in him the future great artist as much as the man.  It was certainly no light matter for her to be deprived of Ulrich’s society, yet she unselfishly admitted that her father, in the vast works he had undertaken, could not be a teacher like Moor, and it would probably be best for him to seek his old master in Flanders, as soon as his task in the riding-school was completed.

She said this, because she believed it to be her duty, though sadly and anxiously; but he joyously agreed with her, for Sophonisba had handed him a letter from the master, in which the latter cordially invited him to come to Antwerp.

Don Fabrizio’s wife summoned him to her palace, and Ulrich found her as kind and sympathizing as when she had been a girl, but her gay, playful manner had given place to a more quiet dignity.

She wished to be told in detail all he had suffered for Moor, how he employed himself, what he intended to do in the future; and she even sought him more than once in the riding-school, watched him at his work, and examined his drawings and sketches.

Once she induced him to tell her the story of his youth.

This was a boon to Ulrich; for, although we keep our best treasures most closely concealed, yet our happiest hours are those in which, with the certainty of being understood, we are permitted to display them.

The youth could show this noble woman, this favorite of the Master, this artist, what he would not have confided to any man, so he permuted her to behold his childhood, and gaze deep into his soul.

He did not even hide what he knew about the “word”—­that he believed he had found the right one in the dungeon, and that Art would remain his guiding star, as long as he lived.

Sophonisba’s cheeks flushed deeper and deeper, and never had he seen her so passionately excited, so earnest and enthusiastic, as now when she exclaimed: 

“Yes, Ulrich, yes!  You have found the right word!

“It is Art, and no other.  Whoever knows it, whoever serves it, whoever impresses it deeply on his soul and only breathes and moves in it, no longer has any taint of baseness; he soars high above the earth, and knows nothing of misery and death.  It is with Art the Divinity bridges space and descends to man, to draw him up ward to brighter worlds.  This word transfigures everything, and brings fresh green shoots even from the dry wood of souls defrauded of love and hope.  Life is a thorny rose-bush, and Art its flower.  Here Mirth is melancholy—­Joy is sorrowful and Liberty is dead.  Here Art withers and—­like an exotic—­is prevented perishing outright only by artificial culture.  But there is a land, I know it well, for it is my home—­where Art buds and blossoms and throws its shade over all the highways.  Favorite of Antonio, knight of the Word—­you must go to Italy!”