Philip had long been a master in the school of dissimulation, but Moor knew him thoroughly, and understood the art of reading his heart.

This mode of expression from the king alarmed him more than a passionate outburst of rage.  He only spoke in this way when concealing what was seething within.  Besides, there was another token.  The Netherlander had intentionally commenced a conversation on art, and it was almost unprecedented to find Philip disinclined to enter into one.  The blow had been scarcely perceptible, but Majesty will not endure a touch.

Philip did not wish to quarrel with the artist now, but he would remember the incident, and woe betide him, if in some gloomy hour the sovereign should recall the insult offered him here.  Even the lightest blow from the paw of this slinking tiger could inflict deep wounds—­even death.

These thoughts had darted with the speed of lightning through the artist’s mind, and still lingered there as, respectfully declining to take the palette, he replied “I beseech you, Sire, keep the brush and colors, and correct what you dislike.”

“That would mean to repaint the whole picture, and my time is limited,” answered Philip.  “You are responsible for your pupils’ faults, as well as for your own offences.  Every one is granted, allowed, offered, what is his due; is it not so, dear master?  Another time, then, you shall hear from me!” In the doorway the monarch kissed his hand to the artist, then disappeared.

CHAPTER XVII.

Moor remained alone in the studio.  How could he have played such a boyish prank!

He was gazing anxiously at the floor, for he had good reason to be troubled, though the reflection that he had been alone with the king, and the unprecedented act had occurred without witnesses, somewhat soothed him.  He could not know that a third person, Ulrich, had beheld the reckless, fateful contest.

The boy had been drawing in the adjoining room, when loud voices were heard in the studio.  He cherished a boundless reverence, bordering upon idolatry, for his first model, the beautiful Sophonisba, and supposing that it was she, discussing works of art with Moor, as often happened, he opened the door, pushed back the curtain, and saw the artist tap the chuckling king on the arm.

The scene was a merry one, yet a thrill of fear ran through his limbs, and he went back to his plaster model more rapidly than he had come.

At nightfall Moor sought Sophonisba.  He had been invited to a ball given by the queen, and knew that he should find the maid of honor among Isabella’s attendants.

The magnificent apartments were made as light as day by thousands of wax-candles in silver and bronze candelabra; costly Gobelin tapestry and purple Flanders hangings covered the walls, and the bright hues of the paintings were reflected from the polished floors, flooded with brilliant light.