When the court-artist’s deep voice exclaimed loudly: 

“Why, why, these are strange doings!” they hastily started back.

Startled, sobered, confused, Ulrich sought for words, and at last stammered: 

“We have, we wanted . . . the farewell. . . .  Coello found no time to interrupt him, for his daughter had thrown herself on his breast, exclaiming amid tears: 

“Forgive us, father-forgive us; he loves me, and I, I love him so dearly, and now that we belong to each other, I am no longer anxious about him, he will not rest, and when he returns. . . .”

“Enough, enough!” interrupted Coello, pressing his hand upon her mouth.  “That is why a duenna is kept for the child; and this is my sensible Belita!  It is of no importance, that yonder youth has nothing, I myself courted your mother with only three reales in my pocket, but he cannot yet do any really good work, and that alters the case.  It is not my way to dun debtors, I have been in debt too often myself for that; but you, Navarrete, have received many favors from me, when you were badly off, and if you are not a scamp, leave the girl in peace and do not see her again before your departure.  When you have studied in Italy and become a real artist, the rest will take care of itself.  You are already a handsome, well-formed fellow, and my race will not degenerate in you.  There are very different women in Italy, from this dear little creature here.  Shut your eyes, and beware of breaking her heart.  Your promise!  Your hand upon it!  In a year and a half from to-day come here again, show what you can do, and stand the test.  If you have become what I hope, I’ll give her to you; if not, you can quietly go your way.  You will make no objection to this, you silly little, love-sick thing.  Go to your room now, Belita, and you, Navarrete, come with me.”

Ulrich followed the artist to his chamber, where the latter opened a chest, in which lay the gold he had earned.  He did not know himself, how much it was, for it was neither counted, nor entered in books.  Grasping the ducats, he gave Ulrich two handfuls, exclaiming: 

“This one is for your work here, the other to relieve you from any care concerning means of living, while pursuing your studies in Venice and Florence.  Don’t make the child wretched, my lad; if you do, you will be a contemptible, dishonorable rascal, a scoundrel, a . . . but you don’t look like a rogue!”

There was a great deal of bustle in Coello’s house that evening.  The artist’s indolent wife was unusually animated.  She could not control her surprise and wrath.  Isabella had been from childhood a great favorite of Herrera, the first architect in Spain, who had already expressed his love for the young girl, and now this vagabond pauper, this immature boy, had come to destroy the prosperity of her child’s life.

She upbraided Coello with being faithless to his paternal duty, and called him a thoughtless booby.  Instead of turning the ungrateful rascal out of the house, he, the dunce, had given him hopes of becoming her poor, dazzled, innocent daughter’s husband.  During the ensuing weeks, Senora Petra prepared Coello many bad days and still worse nights; but the painter persisted in his resolution to give Isabella to Ulrich, if in a year and a half he returned from Italy a skilful artist.