She was no longer little, unassuming Belita; here stood no child, but a beautiful, blooming maiden.  In eighteen months her figure had gained height; anxious yearning and constant contention with her mother had wasted her superabundance of flesh; her face had become oval, her bearing self-possessed.  Her large, clear eyes now showed their full beauty, her half-developed features had acquired exquisite symmetry, and her raven-black hair floated, like a shining ornament, around her pale, charming face.

“Happy will be the man, who is permitted to call this woman his own!” cried a voice in the youth’s breast, but another voice whispered “Lost, lost, forfeited, trifled away!”

Why did she not obey his call?  Why did she not rush into his open arms?  Why, why?

He clenched his fists, bit his lips, for she did not stir, except to press closely to her father’s side.

This handsome, splendidly-dressed gentleman, with the pointed beard, deep-set eyes, and stern, gloomy gaze, was an entirely different person from the gay enthusiastic follower of art, for whom her awakening heart had first throbbed more quickly; this was not the future master, who stood before her mind as a glorious favorite of fortune and the muse, transfigured by joyous creation and lofty success—­this defiant giant did not look like an artist.  No, no; yonder man no longer resembled the Ulrich, to whom, in the happiest hour of her life, she had so willingly, almost too willingly, offered her pure lips.

Isabella’s young heart contracted with a chill, yet she saw that he longed for her; she knew, could not deny, that she had bound herself to him body and soul, and yet—­yet, she would so gladly have loved him.

She strove to speak, but could find no words, save “Ulrich, Ulrich,” and these did not sound gay and joyous, but confused and questioning.

Coello felt her fingers press his shoulder closer and closer.  She was surely seeking protection and aid from him, to keep her promise and resist her lover’s passionate appeal.

Now his darling’s eyes filled with tears, and he felt the tremor of her limbs.

Softened by affectionate weakness and no longer able to resist the impulse to see his little Belita happy, he whispered: 

“Poor thing, poor young lovers!  Do as you choose, I won’t look.”

But Isabella did not leave him; she only drew herself up higher, summoned all her courage and looking the returned traveller more steadily in the face, said: 

“You are so changed, so entirely changed, Ulrich I cannot tell what has come over me.  I have anticipated this hour day and night, and now it is here;—­what is this?  What has placed itself between us?”

“What, indeed!” he indignantly exclaimed, advancing towards her with a threatening air.  “What?  Surely you must know!  Your mother has destroyed your regard for the poor bungler.  Here I stand!  Have I kept my promise, yes or no?  Have I become a monster, a venomous serpent?  Do not look at me so again, do not!  It will do no good; to you or me.  I will not allow myself to be trifled with!”