Yes—­and if the old man rejected him?—­so much the better!

The old cheerful confusion reigned in the studio.  He had a long time to wait there, and then heard through several doors Senora Petra’s scolding voice and her husband’s angry replies.

At last Coello came to him and after greeting him, first formally, then cordially, and enquiring about his health and experiences, he shrugged his shoulders, saying: 

“My wife does not wish you to see Isabella again before the trial.  You must show what you can do, of course; but I. . . . you look well and apparently have collected reales.  Or is it true,” and he moved his hand as if shaking a dice-box.  “He who wins is a good fellow, but we want no more to do with such people here!  You find me the same as of old, and you have returned at the right time, that is something.  De Soto has told me about your quarrel in Venice.  The great masters were pleased with you and this, you Hotspur, you forfeited!  Ferrara for Venice!  A poor exchange.  Filippi—­understands drawing; but otherwise. . . .  Michael Angelo’s pupil!  Does he still write on his back?  Every monk is God’s servant, but in how few does the Lord dwell!  What have you drawn with Sebastiano?”

Ulrich answered these questions in a subdued tone; and Coello listened with only partial attention, for he heard his wife telling the duenna Catalina in an adjoining room what she thought of her husband’s conduct.  She did so very loudly, for she wished to be overheard by him and Ulrich.  But she was not to obtain her purpose, for Coello suddenly interrupted the returned travellers story, saying: 

“This is getting beyond endurance.  If she does her utmost, you shall see Isabella.  A welcome, a grasp of the hand, nothing more.  Poor young lovers!  If only it did not require such a confounded number of things to live. . . .  Well, we will see!”

As soon as the artist had entered the adjoining room, a new and more violent quarrel arose there, but, though Senora Petra finally called a fainting-fit to her aid, her husband remained firm, and at last returned to the studio with Isabella.

Ulrich had awaited her, as a criminal expects his sentence.  Now she stood before him led by her father’s hand-and he, he struck his forehead with his fist, closed his eyes and opened them again to look at her—­to gaze as if he beheld a wondrous apparition.  Then feeling as if he should die of shame, grief, and joyful surprise, he stood spellbound, and knew not what to do, save to extend both hands to her, or what to say, save “I . . .  I—­I,” then with a sudden change of tone exclaimed like a madman: 

“You don’t know!  I am not. . . .  Give me time, master.  Here, here, girl, you must, you shall, all must not be over!”

He had opened his arms wide, and now hastily approached her with the eager look of the gambler, who has staked his last penny on a card.

Coello’s daughter did not obey.