“And the last verse: 

       “’And shall we never receive our due? 
        Will our sore trials never end? 
        Leader to victory, be true,
        Come quickly, death, beloved friend.’

“I often sang it in those days; but now:  What does the world cost?  A thousand zechins is not too much for me to pay for it!”

“Have you gained booty, Hans?”

“Better must come; but I’m faring tolerably well.  Nothing but feasting!  Three of us came here from Venice through Lombardy, by ship from Genoa to Barcelona, and thence through this barren, stony country here to Madrid.”

“To take service?”

“No, indeed.  I’m satisfied with my company and regiment.  We brought some pictures here, painted by the great master, Titian, whose fame must surely have reached you.  See this little purse! hear its jingle—­it’s all gold!  If any one calls King Philip a niggard again, I’ll knock his teeth down his throat.”

“Good tidings, good reward!” laughed Moor.  “Have you had board and lodging too?”

“A bed fit for the Roman Emperor,—­and as for the rest?—­I told you, nothing but feasting.  Unluckily, the fun will be all over to-night, but to go without paying my respects to you. . . .  Zounds! is that the little fellow—­the Hop-o’my-Thumb-who pressed forward to the muster-table at Emmendingen?”

“Certainly, certainly.”

“Zounds, he has grown.  We’ll gladly enlist you now, young sir.  Can you remember me?”

“Of course I do,” replied Ulrich.  “You sang the song about ’good fortune’”

“Have you recollected that?” asked the lansquenet.  “Foolish stuff!  Believe it or not, I composed the merry little thing when in great sorrow and poverty, just to warm my heart.  Now I’m prosperous, and can rarely succeed in writing a verse.  Fires are not needed in summer.”

“Where have you been lodged?”

“Here in the ‘old cat.’  That’s a good name for this Goliath’s palace.”

When Eitelfritz had enquired about the jester and drunk a goblet of wine with Moor and Ulrich, he took leave of them both, and soon after the artist went to the city alone.

At the usual hour Isabella Coello came with her duenna to the studio, and instantly noticed the change Sophonisba’s portrait had undergone.

Ulrich stood beside her before the easel, while she examined his work.

The young girl gazed at it a long, long time, without a word, only once pausing in her scrutiny to ask:  “And you, you painted this—­without the master?”

Ulrich shook his head, saying, in an undertone:  “I suppose he thinks it is my own work; and yet—­I can’t understand it.”

“But I can,” she eagerly exclaimed, still gazing intently at the portrait.

At last, turning her round, pleasant flee towards him, she looked at him with tears in her eyes, saying so affectionately that the innermost depths of Ulrich’s heart were stirred:  “How glad I am!  I could never accomplish such a work.  You will become a great artist, a very distinguished one, like Moor.  Take notice, you surely will.  How beautiful that is!—­I can find no words to express my admiration.”