After the holy man had left him, his lips moved incessantly, but no one could understand what he said. Towards morning, the sun of Provence was shining warmly and brightly into the room and on his bed, when he suddenly threw his arm above his head, and half speaking, half singing to Hans Eitelfritz’s melody, let fall from his lips the words: “In fortune, good fortune.” A few minutes after he was dead. Moor closed his eyes. Ulrich knelt weeping beside the bed, and kissed his poor friend’s cold hand. When he rose, the artist was gazing with silent reverence at the jester’s features; Ulrich followed his eyes, and imagined he was standing in the presence of a miracle, for the harsh, bitter, troubled face had obtained a new expression, and was now the countenance of a peaceful, kindly man, who had fallen asleep with pleasant memories in his heart. 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.”