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     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

A WORD, ONLY A WORD

By Georg Ebers

Volume 3.

CHAPTER XIV.

For the first time in his life Ulrich had witnessed the death of a human being.

How often he had laughed at the fool, or thought his words absurd and wicked;—­but the dead man inspired him with respect, and the thought of the old jester’s corpse exerted a far deeper and more lasting influence upon him, than his father’s supposed death.  Hitherto he had only been able to imagine him as he had looked in life, but now the vision of him stretched at full length, stark and pale like the dead Pellicanus, often rose before his mind.

The artist was a silent man, and understood how to think and speak in lines and colors, better than in words.  He only became eloquent and animated, when the conversation turned upon subjects connected with his art.

At Toulouse he purchased three new horses, and engaged the same number of French servants, then went to a jeweller and bought many articles.  At the inn he put the chains and rings he had obtained, into pretty little boxes, and wrote on them in neat Gothic characters with special care:  “Helena, Anna, Minerva, Europa and Lucia;” one name on each.

Ulrich watched him and remarked that those were not his children’s names.

Moor looked up, and answered smiling:  “These are only young artists, six sisters, each one of whom is as dear to me as if she were my own daughter.  I hope we shall find them in Madrid, one of them, Sophonisba, at any rate.”

“But there are only five boxes,” observed the boy, “and you haven’t written Sophonisba on any of them.”

“She is to have something better,” replied his patron smiling.  “My portrait, which I began to paint yesterday, will be finished here.  Hand me the mirror, the maul-stick, and the colors.”

The picture was a superb likeness, absolutely faultless.  The pure brow curved in lofty arches at the temples, the small eyes looked as clear and bright as they did in the mirror, the firm mouth shaded by a thin moustache, seemed as if it were just parting to utter a friendly word.  The close-shaven beard on the cheeks and chin rested closely upon the white ruff, which seemed to have just come from under the laundresses’ smoothing-iron.

How rapidly and firmly the master guided his brush!  And Sophonisba, whom Moor distinguished by such a gift, how was he to imagine her?  The other five sisters too!  For their sakes he first anticipated with pleasure the arrival at Madrid.

In Bayonne the artist left the baggage-wagon behind.  His luggage was put on mules, and when the party of travellers started, it formed an imposing caravan.