“Look!” exclaimed Carlos; “here is a small figure in the corner of my canvass, and it is not badly done. I should like to know who it is that amuses himself every morning with sketching figures, sometimes on my canvass, sometimes on the walls. There was one yesterday on your easel, Ferdinand.” “It must be Isturitz,” said Ferdinand. “Gentlemen,” replied Isturitz, “I protest--” “You need not protest,” replied Carlos; “we all know you are not capable of sketching such a figure as that.” “At least,” answered Isturitz, “I have never made a sketch as bad as that of yours; one would think you had done it in jest.” “And my pencils are quite wet,” said Gonzalo in his turn. “Truly, strange things go on here in the night.” “Do you not think, like the negro Gomes, that it is the Zombi, who comes and plays all these tricks?” said Isturitz. “Truly,” said Mendez, who had not yet spoken, being absorbed in admiration of the various figures which were sketched with the hand of a master in different parts of the studio, “if the Zombi of the negroes draws in this manner, he would make a beautiful head of the virgin in my Descent from the Cross.” With these words, Mendez, with a careless air, approached his easel, when an exclamation of astonishment escaped him, and he gazed with mute surprise at his canvass, on which was roughly sketched a most beautiful head of the virgin; but the expression was so admirable, the lines so clear, the contour so graceful, that, compared with the figures by which it was encircled, it seemed as if some heavenly visitant had descended among them. “Ah, what is the matter?” said a rough voice. The pupils turned at the sound, and all made a respectful obeisance to the great master. “Look, Senor Murillo, look!” exclaimed the youths, as they pointed to the easel of Mendez. “Who has painted this? who has painted this, gentlemen?” asked Murillo, eagerly; “speak, tell me. He who has sketched this virgin will one day be the master of us all. Murillo wishes he had done it. What a touch! what delicacy! what skill! Mendez, my dear pupil, was it you?” “No, Senor,” said Mendez, in a sorrowful tone. “Was it you then, Isturitz, or Ferdinand, or Carlos?” But they all gave the same answer as Mendez. “It could not however come here without hands,” said Murillo, impatiently. “I think, sir,” said Cordova, the youngest of the pupils, “that these strange pictures are very alarming; indeed, this is not the first unaccountable event which has happened in your studio. To tell the truth, such wonderful things have happened here, one scarcely knows what to believe.” “What are they?” asked Murillo, still lost in admiration of the head of the virgin by the unknown artist.