Moor bowed, and Don Fabrizio continued:  “We will start at four o’clock in the morning.  Instead of exchanging vows of love, we held a council of war.  Everything is arranged.  In an hour my servants will come and ask for the portrait of my betrothed bride; instead of the picture, you will put your baggage in the chest.  Before midnight you will come to my apartments.  I have passports for myself, six servants, the equerry, and a chaplain.  Father Clement will remain safely concealed at my sister’s, and you will accompany me in priestly costume.  May we rely upon your consent?”

“With all the gratitude of a thankful heart, but. . . .”

“But?”

“There is my old servant—­and my pupil Ulrich Navarrete.”

“The old man is taciturn, Don Fabrizio!” said Sophonisba.  “If he is forbidden to speak at all. . . .  He is necessary to the Master.”

“Then he can accompany you,” said the baron.  “As for your pupil, he must help us secure your flight, and lead the pursuers on a false trail.  The king has honored you with a travelling-carriage.—­At half-past eleven order horses to be put to it and leave the Alcazar.  When you arrive before our palace, stop it, alight, and remain with me.  Ulrich, whom everybody knows—­who has not noticed the handsome, fair-haired lad in his gay clothes—­will stay with the carriage and accompany it along the road towards Burgos, as far as it goes.  A better decoy than he cannot be imagined, and besides he is nimble and an excellent horseman.  Give him your own steed, the white Andalusian.  If the blood-hounds should overtake him. . . .”

Here Moor interrupted the baron, saying gravely and firmly:  “My grey head will be too dearly purchased at the cost of this young life.  Change this part of your plan, I entreat you.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the Sicilian.  “We have few hours at our command, and if they don’t follow him, they will pursue us, and you will be lost.”

“Yet. . . .”  Moor began; but Sophonisba, scarcely able to command her voice, interrupted:  “He owes everything to—­you.  I know him.  Where is he?”

“Let us maintain our self-control!” cried the Netherlander.  “I do not rely upon the king’s mercy, but perhaps in the decisive hour, he will remember what we have been to each other; if Ulrich, on the contrary, robs the irritated lion of his prey and is seized. . . .”

“My sister shall watch over him,” said the baron but Sophonisba tore open the door, rushed into the studio, and called as loudly as she could:  “Ulrich, Ulrich!  Ulrich!”

The men followed her, but scarcely had they crossed the threshold, when they heard her rap violently at the door of the school-room, and Ulrich asking:  “What is it?”

“Open the door!”

Soon after, with pallid face and throbbing heart, he was standing before the others, asking:  “What am I to do?”

“Save your master!” cried Sophonisba.  “Are you a contemptible Wight, or does a true artist’s heart beat in your breast?  Would you fear to go, perhaps to your death, for this imperilled man?”