Coello looked up sadly and gave an answer in the negative by compassionately waving his hand.
The young girl shivered, as if a chill breeze had struck her, and when the artist stood beside her, she gazed enquiringly at him with her dark eyes, which looked larger than ever in the pallid, emaciated face, and said in a low, firm tone:
"I want to speak to him. You will take me to the picture. I must see it."
"He has thrust his maul-stick through it. Believe me, child, you would have condemned it yourself."
"And yet, yet! I must see it," she answered earnestly, "see it with these eyes. I feel, I know—he is an artist. Wait, I'll get my mantilla."
Isabella hurried back with flying feet, and when a short time after, wearing the black lace kerchief on her head, she descended the staircase by her father's side, the private secretary de Soto came towards them, exclaiming:
"Do you want to hear the latest news, Coello? Your pupil Navarrete has become faithless to you and the noble art of painting. Don Juan gave him the enlistment money fifteen minutes ago. Better be a good trooper, than a mediocre artist! What is the matter, Senorita?"
"Nothing, nothing," Isabella murmured gently, and fell fainting on her father's breast.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Two years had passed. A beautiful October day was dawning; no cloud dimmed the azure sky, and the sun's disk rose, glowing crimson, behind the narrow strait, that afforded ingress to the Gulf of Corinth.