One day Moor took him aside, and told him that he had commenced a portrait of young Count Rappolstein too.  The lad was obliged to be still, having broken his foot in a fall from his horse, and as Ulrich was of the same size and age, the artist wished him to put on the young count’s clothes and serve as a model.

The smith’s son now received the best clothes belonging to his aristocratic companion in age.  The suit was entirely black, but each garment of a different material, the stockings silk, the breeches satin, the doublet soft Flanders velvet.  Golden-yellow puffs and slashes stood forth in beautiful relief against the darker stuff.  Even the knots of ribbon on the breeches and shoes were as yellow as a blackbird’s beak.  Delicate lace trimmed the neck and fell on the hands, and a clasp of real gems confined the black and yellow plumes in the velvet hat.

All this finery was wonderfully becoming to the smith’s son, and he must have been blind, if he had not noticed how old and young nudged each other at sight of him.  The spirit of vanity in his soul laughed in delight, and the lad soon knew the way to the large Venetian mirror, which was carefully kept in the hall of state.  This wonderful glass showed Ulrich for the first time his whole figure and the image which looked back at him from the crystal, flattered and pleased him.

But, more than aught else, he enjoyed watching the artist’s hand and eye during the sittings.  Poor Father Lukas in the monastery must hide his head before this master.  He seemed to actually grow while engaged in his work, his shoulders, which he usually liked to carry stooping forward, straightened, the broad, manly breast arched higher, and the kindly eyes grew stern, nay sometimes wore a terrible expression.

Although little was said during the sittings, they were always too short for the boy.  He did not stir, for it always seemed to him as if any movement would destroy the sacred act he witnessed, and when, in the pauses, he looked at the canvas and saw how swiftly and steadily the work progressed, he felt as if before his own eyes, he was being born again to a nobler existence.  In the wassail-hall hung the portrait of a young Prince of Navarre, whose life had been saved in the chase by a Rappoltstein.  Ulrich, attired in the count’s clothes, looked exactly like him.  The jester had been the first to perceive this strange circumstance.  Every one, even Moor, agreed with him, and so it happened that Pellicanus henceforth called his young friend the Navarrete.  The name pleased the boy.  Everything here pleased him, and he was full of happiness; only often at night he could not help grieving because, while his father was dead, he enjoyed such an overflowing abundance of good things, and because he had lost his mother, Ruth, and all who had loved him.

CHAPTER XIII.

Ulrich was obliged to share the jester’s sleeping-room, and as Pellicanus shrank from getting out of bed, while suffering from night-sweats, and often needed something, he roused Ulrich from his sleep, and the latter was always ready to assist him.  This happened more frequently as they continued their journey, and the poor little man’s illness increased.