The long, silver-white beard of the tall venerable painter flowed in thick waves over his breast, and the eyes, with which he scanned Ulrich, were those of a vigorous, keen-sighted man.

His voice did not sound harsh, but sad and melancholy; deep sorrow shadowed his glance, and stamped itself upon the mouth of him, whose thin, aged hand still ensnared the senses easily and surely with gay symphonies of color! The youth answered the distinguished Master's questions with trembling lips, and when Titian invited him to share his meal, and Ulrich, seated at the lower end of the table in the brilliant banqueting-hall, was told by his neighbors with what great men he was permitted to eat, he felt so timid, small, and insignificant, that he scarcely ventured to touch the goblets and delicious viands the servants offered.
He looked and listened; distinguishing his old master's name, and hearing him praised without stint as a portrait-painter.

He was questioned about him, and gave confused answers.
Then the guests rose.
The February sun was shining into the lofty window, where Titian seated himself to talk more gaily than before with Paolo Cagliari, Veronese, and other great artists and nobles.
Again Ulrich heard Moor mentioned.

Then the old man, from whom the youth had not averted his eyes for an instant, beckoned, and Cagliari called him, saying that he, the gallant Antonio Moor's pupil, must now show what he could do; the Master, Titian, would give him a task.
A shudder ran through his frame; cold drops of perspiration, extorted by fear, stood on his brow.
The old man now invited him to accompany his nephew to the studio.
Daylight would last an hour longer.

He might paint a Jew; no usurer nor dealer in clothes, but one of the noble race of prophets, disciples, apostles.
Ulrich stood before the easel.
For the first time after a long period he again called upon the "word," and did so fervently, with all his heart.