It is only..

I only feel, as if I was bearing all that had been dear to me to the grave.

Thanks, Master, thanks for many kindnesses.

I am, I have--my heart--my brain, everything is confused.

I only know that you, that Isabella, have been kind to me and I, I have--it will kill me yet! Good fortune gone! Art gone! A Dios, treacherous world! A Dios, divine art!" As he uttered the last sentence he drew his hand from the artist's grasp, rushed back into the studio, and with streaming eyes pressed his lips to the palette, the handle of the brush, and his ruined picture; then he dashed past Coello into the street.
The artist longed to go to his child; but the king detained him in the park.