“Withdrawn his favor!” Ulrich joyously exclaimed.  “They are like two brothers!  They wrestled together to-day, and the master, in all friendship, struck His Majesty a blow with the maul-stick. . . .  But—­for Heaven’s sake!—­you will swear—­fool, that I am—­you will swear not to speak of it!”

“Of course I will!” Kochel exclaimed with a loud laugh.  “My hand upon it Navarrete.  I’ll keep silence, but you!  Don’t gossip about that!  Not on any account!  The jesting blow might do the master harm.  Excuse me for to-day; there is a great deal of writing to be done for the almoner.”

Ulrich went directly back to the studio.  The conviction that he had committed a folly, nay, a crime, had taken possession of him directly after the last word escaped his lips, and now tortured him more and more.  If Kochel, who was a very ordinary man, should not keep the secret, what might not Moor suffer from his treachery!  The lad was usually no prattler, yet now, merely to boast of his master’s familiar intercourse with the king, he had forgotten all caution.

After a restless night, his first thought had been to look at his portrait of Sophonisba.  The picture lured, bewitched, enthralled him with an irresistible spell.

Was this really his work?

He recognized every stroke of the brush.  And yet!  Those thoughtful eyes, the light on the lofty brow, the delicate lips, which seemed about parting to utter some wise or witty word—­he had not painted them, never, never could he have accomplished such a masterpiece.  He became very anxious.  Had “Fortune,” which usually left him in the lurch when creating, aided him on this occasion?  Last evening, before he went to bed, the picture had been very different.  Moor rarely painted by candlelight and he had heard him come home late, yet now—­now. . . .

He was roused from these thoughts by the artist, who had been feasting his eyes a long time on the handsome lad, now rapidly developing into a youth, as he stood before the canvas as if spellbound.  He felt what was passing in the awakening artist-soul, for a similar incident had happened to himself, when studying with his old master, Schorel.

“What is the matter?” asked Moor as quietly as usual, laying his hand upon the arm of his embarrassed pupil.  “Your work seems to please you remarkably.”

“It is-I don’t know”—­stammered Ulrich.  “It seems as if in the night. . . .”

“That often happens,” interrupted the master.  “If a man devotes himself earnestly to his profession, and says to himself:  ’Art shall be everything to me, all else trivial interruptions,’ invisible powers aid him, and when he sees in the morning what he has created the day before, he imagines a miracle has happened.”

At these words Ulrich grew red and pale by turns.  At last, shaking his head, he murmured in an undertone:  “Yes, but those shadows at the corners of the mouth—­do you see?—­that light on the brow, and there—­just look at the nostrils—­I certainly did not paint those.”