some oil," said another; "Sebastian, the rest for my hand;" "Sebastian, quick, rub me some vermilion ;" "and me, some yellow ochre come, quick! quick!”

The poor boy could not obey all at once, and though he hurried from one to the other, he was unable to keep pace with their impatience.

THE MASTER AND THE SLAVE.

They had scarcely settled to their work, before the door of the studio opened, and a man appeared, over whose head about forty years might have passed; he was richly dressed; his figure was tall and dignified, and his features and countenance were of that noble and intellectual cast which often claim more admiration than mere beauty; his appearance imposed silence, even before he addressed those who saluted him respectfully as he entered.

"What has happened?" he asked in a tone which at once commanded attention: "one would imagine that something unusual had occurred, gentlemen."

"Look, Signor Murillo," said Villavicemio, pointing to his easel. "Well, very well, bravo Villavicemio!" said Murillo, "there is improvement there!"

"I did not do it, master!" said Villavicemio, in a tone of regret and mortification.

"Then who did?" resumed Murillo, "who did? I say-speak!" added he, impatiently: "it is admirable !—such delicacy of touch! such rich colouring! Gentlemen, whoever did that head will beat you all.—Well! no answer, every one silent, and no one owns it. If I, Murillo, had done it, I would own it; and by St. James of Compostella, I wish I had done it. Is it yours, Raba?" "No, signor."

"Nor yours, Souarès ?"

.6

Alas, no! I wish it was," replied the young man.

"Can it be Gaspard, then?" said Murillo.

"He denies it, signor," said Chaves.

"If he denies it, we must believe him; but who then has done it? This head did not appear of itself in the middle of this painting."

"Faith, Signor Murillo," said Cordova, the youngest of the pupils, "if we believe Gomez, or young Sebastian—'

"Well!" exclaimed Murillo, somewhat impatiently, "what do they say?"

"It must be the Zombi, who-" the shouts of his companions interrupted Cordova; and he added angrily, "Well, laugh—laugh

as much as you please; but you cannot deny, gentlemen, that strange things happen here every night, which no one can explain or account for."

"Because no one is here to see what happens," replied Villavicemio.

"And what is it that does happen every night?" asked Murillo, still keeping his eye fixed on the beautifully-painted head, which, strange to say, remained unacknowledged.

Cordova, thus encouraged, resumed :—

"In obedience to your orders, signor, we never leave the studio without putting everything in order; our pallets and brushes are cleaned, and our paintings turned on the easels; well, Signor Murillo, for a month past-yes, quite that, if not more, every morning when we return here, one finds his pallet covered with paint, another his brushes dirty, and sometimes on one canvas, sometimes on another, a head finished which had been left halffinished; or a new one half painted in the corner-sometimes the head of an old man, or that of an angel; or the portrait of some one we know; but, signor, you would be tired were I to tell you half the strange and wonderful things that happen at night in this studio.

"Can Gaspard be a sleep-walker?" said Villavicemio.

"No, no! and besides, it would be somewhat strange if he painted better at night with his eyes shut than he does by day with his eyes open; no! my young friends; but whoever did this head-unfinished and imperfect as it is-has no common talent; the hand that did it will one day be the hand of a master; we will, however, soon know. Sebastian!"

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"Are you going to ask Sebastian, signor ?" interrupted Villavicem'o, he knows no more than we do; ah! I forgot, he declares it is the Zombi."

The young mulatto had hastened towards his master at the first summons, and now stood trembling before him.

"Did I not order you to sleep here every night?"

"Yes, master."

"And have you obeyed me?

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"Yes, master."

"Then answer me this question-who comes at night into the studio, or early in the morning before the pupils arrive? who, I ask? answer me!" said Murillo, sternly, and with his dark eye fixed steadily on the frightened boy.

"No one, master," said Sebastian in a timid voice.

"No one!-thou liest, slave, thou liest! How, then, dost thou account for all that has been done? and for this?" added Murillo, as he pointed to the head of the Virgin in Villavicemio's painting. "No one but-me-master, I swear to you," said the boy, as he clasped his hands, and looked imploringly at Murillo.

"Listen to me!" exclaimed Murillo, a look of proud determination resting on his fine countenance, "I will know who did this head, do you hear? I will know! as well as all the other figures these gentlemen have found on their paintings. I will know all ! you hear me, Sebastian. This night, instead of sleeping, you will watch; and if to-morrow you have not discovered the culprit, you will receive twenty lashes, well given, too. Ah! you mutter, I think if you have anything to say, speak."

"I was going to say, master," said the poor boy, with tears in his eyes, "that if all remained in order to-night, and that these gentlemen find nothing to-morrow

"That will alter the case; instead of twenty lashes, you will have thirty; you hear? Now, gentlemen, to work.”

The lesson commenced, and whilst it lasted, a profound silence reigned in the apartment; the gay laugh and conversation of the pupils were for the time suppressed: Murillo himself was too much absorbed in the sublime art to which he owed his brilliant existence to suffer a word to be uttered on any other subject. This great master expected from his pupils some portion of that zeal and devotion which, joined to his splendid talents, made him one of the greatest painters of whom Spain can boast, and earned for him his undying fame.

THE ZOMBI.

After Murillo left the apartment, the young men seemed determined to indemnify themselves for the silence which his presence had imposed; instead of the quiet which had reigned amongst them, all was now life and animation. The conversation which had been interrupted was resumed, the minds of the pupils being still occupied with the mysterious performances which had so lately surprised them.

"Tell us then, Sebastian," said Villavicemio, as soon as the heavy curtain, or portière fell back into its place, and that Murillo's steps were heard at the other end of the corridor; "why did you not tell the master the same as you told us-that the Zombi had done it?"

"Because he might have had me punished, if I had given that answer," replied Sebastian, who, like the rest, appeared now to have recovered the use of his tongue.

"Ah! you won't escape to-morrow with your Zombi."

"Do not speak ill of the Zombi, Signor Mendès," said the mulatto, with an assumed look of fear, "for see, he is revenging himself by making you paint that arm all wrong, it is at least two inches longer than the other."

"Sebastian is right," said Raba, as he leant over his neighbour's easel; "that arm is too long; but tell us, Sebastian, what is the Zombi ?"

"Yes, yes, Sebastian, tell us who is this Zombi?" exclaimed several voices at once.

"Well, gentlemen," replied the mulatto, "I never saw him, but my father, who never saw him either, was told by my grandfather that it was a spirit, a mischievous spirit, who visits the earth at night on purpose to do mischief."

"I wish I did as well by day as he does by night, however;" said Tobar; "but now, Sebastian, give me the Neapolitan yellow?" "Do you not think you have put on enough yellow, Signor Tobar?" replied the boy.

"And I, Sebastian, have I too much yellow?"

"Oh! you, signor! why yours is all blue-dark blue, too; the trees are blue; the water, the fields-all are blue; do you intend it to be so ?" said the young slave, smiling somewhat mischievously. "No, by no means," replied Chaves.

"One would suppose you did, however," said the boy, coolly. "That boy is as impudent and mischievous as a monkey," said Raba, "with all his pretended humility and simplicity."

"A negro is a species of monkey!" observed Villavicemio. "Half-monkey, half-parrot," added Tobar.

"With this difference, however," replied Raba, "that a parrot only repeats what it is taught, whilst Sebastian's remarks are generally original, and very often correct;" and as he spoke he looked kindly at the poor boy.

so.'

"Sebastian, what do you say to this head?" asked Fernandés. "That it is not round enough, signor, but perhaps you like it

"And mine, what do you say to mine ?" said Souarès.

"Yours, signor? why it looks as flat as if it had been well pressed between two boards!"

Peals of laughter followed each of these two remarks, in which

all present more or less joined but Raba, who at last observed: "It is strange, gentlemen, that we question Sebastian, as if only to laugh at him, and yet the boy's eye is so true and correct, that we all of us profit by his criticisms; I am ready to own I often do ; and he certainly has a good eye for colours."

"By dint of rubbing them, I suppose," said Sebastian, who could not be moved by raillery, but was easily abashed by praise, and keenly alive to sympathy and kindness.

"That will not apply to everything," said Villavicemio.

"Oh! then I only repeat what I hear the master say," said Sebastian, with an assumed air of simplicity; "I am nothing but a monkey, as some of you say-a parrot-and a slave," added he, in so different a tone, that the young men, gay and careless as they seemed, were struck with it, as if suddenly alive to the fact that he had feelings probably as tender as their own.

"Poor boy!" said Raba, as he laid his hand kindly on the boy's shoulder, "take care and catch the Zombi, Sebastian, or look to yourself."

"Catch the Zombi, or look to your shoulders," repeated his companions, as they left the studio, "good-bye, Sebastian; good luck to you; my respects to the Zombi," and the poor little slave was left alone!

THE NIGHT IN THE STUDIO.

"The Zombi! the Zombi!" repeated Sebastian, as he watched the dark folds of the curtain fall again into their place, as the last of the pupils left the studio, "Oh, God of the Christians, take pity on a poor slave!"

These words were uttered in the same peculiar tone of deep feeling with which he had shortly before pronounced the word "slave!" and for a few brief moments he seemed lost in thought, and then set to work to perform his usual task of putting all in order after the work of the day was over. He was still busily engaged in this occupation when daylight, slowly but surely, gave place to the shades of evening, and obliged him to light the small lamp appropriated to his use; having done this he looked carefully around as if to assure himself that he was alone and unobserved; he then approached Villavicemio's easel, and deliberately replacing the painting, which had been carefully turned with the blank side outwards, he gazed intently at the head of the Virgin, which had so unaccountably appeared in the picture; an indescribable expression lit up the usually inanimate countenance of the young slave: he