Once Ulrich, without listening, heard Moor through the open door of the school-room, represent to her, that it was unwise to reject a suitor like the baron; he was a noble, high-minded gentleman and his love beyond question.

Her answer was long in coming; at last she rose, saying in an agitated voice:  “We know each other, Master; I know your kind intentions.  And yet, yet!  Let me remain what I am, however insignificant that may be.  I like the baron, but what better gifts can marriage bestow, than I already possess?  My love belongs to Art, and you—­you are my friend. . . .  My sisters are my children.  Have I not gained the right to call them so?  I shall have no lack of duties towards them, when my father has squandered his inheritance.  My noble queen will provide for my future, and I am necessary to her.  My heart is filled—­filled to the brim; I do what I can, and is it not a beautiful thought, that I am permitted to be something to those I love?  Let me remain your Sophonisba, and a free artist.”

“Yes, yes, yes!  Remain what you are, girl!” Moor exclaimed, and then for a long time silence reigned in the studio.

Even before they could understand each other’s language, a friendly intercourse had existed between Isabella and her German fellow-pupil, for in leisure moments they had sketched each other more than once.

These pictures caused much laughter and often occasional harmless scuffles between Ulrich and Sanchez, for the latter liked to lay hands on these portraits and turn them into hideous caricatures.

Isabella often earned the artist’s unqualified praise, Ulrich sometimes received encouraging, sometimes reproving, and sometimes even harsh words.  The latter Moor always addressed to him in German, but they deeply wounded the lad, haunting him for days.

The “word” still remained obedient to him.  Only in matters relating to art, the power of “fortune” seemed to fail, and deny its service.

When the painter set him difficult tasks, which he could not readily accomplish, he called upon the “word;” but the more warmly and fervently he did so, the more surely he receded instead of advancing.  When, on the contrary, he became angered against “fortune,” reproached, rejected it, and relied wholly on himself, he accomplished the hardest things and won Moor’s praise.

He often thought, that he would gladly resign his untroubled, luxurious life, and all the other gifts of Fortune, if he could only succeed in accomplishing what Moor desired him to attain in art.  He knew and felt that this was the right goal; but one thing was certain, he could never attain it with pencil and charcoal.  What his soul dreamed, what his mental vision beheld was colored.  Drawing, perpetual drawing, became burdensome, repulsive, hateful; but with palette and brush in his hand he could not fail to become an artist, perhaps an artist like Titian.

He already used colors in secret; Sanchez Coello had been the cause of his making the first trial.