Ulrich had shouted these words, as if some great injustice had been done him, and he believed himself in the right.

Coello tried to release himself from his daughter, to confront the passionately excited man, but she held him back, and with a pale face and trembling voice, but proud and resolute manner, answered: 

“No one has trifled with you, I least of all; my love has been earnest, sacred earnest.”

“Earnest!” interrupted Ulrich, with cutting irony.

“Yes, yes, sacred earnest;—­and when my mother told me you had killed a man and left Venice for a worthless woman’s sake, when it was rumored, that in Ferrara you had become a gambler, I thought:  ’I know him better, they are slandering him to destroy the love you bear in your heart.’  I did not believe it; but now I do.  I believe it, and shall do so, till you have withstood your trial.  For the gambler I am too good, to the artist Navarrete I will joyfully keep my promise.  Not a word, I will hear no more.  Come, father!  If he loves me, he will understand how to win me.  I am afraid of this man.”

Ulrich now knew who was in fault, and who in the right.  Strong impulse urged him away from the studio, away from Art and his betrothed bride; for he had forfeited all the best things in life.

But Coello barred his way.  He was not the man, for the sake of a brawl and luck at play, to break friendship with the faithful companion, who had shown distinctly enough how fondly he loved his darling.  He had hidden behind these bushes himself in his youth, and yet become a skilful artist and good husband.

He willingly yielded to his wife in small matters, in important ones he meant to remain master of the house.  Herrera was a great scholar and artist, but an insignificant man; and he allowed himself to be paid like a bungler.  Ulrich’s manly beauty had pleased him, and under his, Coello’s teaching, he would make his mark.  He, the father knew better what suited Isabella than she herself.  Girls do not sob so bitterly as she had done, as soon as the door of the studio closed behind her, unless they are in love.

Whence did she obtain this cool judgment?  Certainly not from him, far less from her mother.

Perhaps she only wished to arouse Navarrete to do his best at the trial.  Coello smiled; it was in his power to judge mildly.

So he detained Ulrich with cheering words, and gave him a task in which he could probably succeed.  He was to paint a Madonna and Child, and two months were allowed him for the work.  There was a studio in the Casa del Campo, he could paint there and need only promise never to visit the Alcazar before the completion of the work.

Ulrich consented.  Isabella must be his.  Scorn for scorn!

She should learn which was the stronger.

He knew not whether he loved or hated her, but her resistance had passionately inflamed his longing to call her his.  He was determined, by summoning all his powers, to create a masterpiece.  What Titian had approved must satisfy a Coello! so he began the task.