A new spirit animated the pupil.  He rushed to his work with tireless energy, and even the hardest task became easy, when he thought of the prize he sought.  At the end of a year, Moor ceased to instruct him, and Ruth became the wife of Meister Ulrich Schwab.

The famous artist-guild of Antwerp soon proudly numbered him among them, and even at the present day his pictures are highly esteemed by connoisseurs, though they are attributed to other painters, for he never signed his name to his works.

Of the four words, which illumined his life-path as guiding-stars, he had learned to value fame and power least; fortune and art remained faithful to him, but as the earth does not shine by its own might, but receives its light from the sun, so they obtained brilliancy, charm and endearing power through love.

The fierce Eletto, whose sword raged in war, following the teachings of his noble Master, became a truly Christian philanthropist.

Many have gazed with quiet delight at the magnificent picture, which represents a beautiful mother, with a bright, intelligent face, leading her three blooming children towards a pleasant old man, who holds out his arms to them.  The old man is Adam, the mother Ruth, the children are the armorer’s grandchildren; Ulrich Schwab was the artist.

Meister Moor died soon after Ulrich’s marriage, and a few years after, Sophonisba di Moncada came to Antwerp to seek the grave of him she had loved.  She knew from the dead man that he had met his dear Madrid pupil, and her first visit was to the latter.

After looking at his works, she exclaimed: 

“The word!  Do you remember, Meister?  I told you then, that you had found the right one.  You are greatly altered, and it is a pity that you have lost your flowing locks; but you look like a happy man, and to what do you owe it?  To the word, the only right word:  ‘Art!’”

He let her finish the sentence, then answered gravely “There is still a loftier word, noble lady!  Whoever owns it—­is rich indeed.  He will no longer wander—­seek in doubt.

“And this is?” she asked incredulously, with a smile of superior knowledge.

“I have found it,” he answered firmly.  “It is ‘Love.’”

Sophonisba bent her head, saying softly and sadly:  “yes, yes—­love.”

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     Among fools one must be a fool
     He was steadfast in everything, even anger
     No one we learn to hate more easily, than the benefactor
     Once laughed at a misfortune, its sting loses its point
     To expect gratitude is folly
     Whoever condemns, feels himself superior