“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.
“According to your orders, Senor,” answered Ferdinand, “we never leave the studio without putting everything in order, cleaning our palettes, washing our brushes, and arranging our easels; but when we return in the morning, not only is everything in confusion, our brushes filled with paint, our palettes dirtied, but here and there are sketches, (beautiful ones to be sure they are,) sometimes of the head of an angel, sometimes of a demon, then again the profile of a young girl, or the figure of an old man, but all admirable, as you have seen yourself, Senor.”
“This is certainly a curious affair, gentlemen,” observed Murillo; “but we shall soon learn who is this nightly visitant.” “Sebastian,” he continued, addressing a little mulatto boy of about fourteen years old, who appeared at his call, “did I not desire you to sleep here every night?”
“Yes, master,” said the boy, timidly.
“And have you done so?”
“Yes, master.”