CHAPTER XXVI.

On St. Desiderius’s Day--[May 23rd]--the Emperor again missed the star,

and, as it was in the Golden Cross and the heat was great, Barbara

replied that her dress was too thin for the heavy ornament. But the

inquiry had made her fear of additional questions so great that she

rejoiced over the news that her lover would not visit her the next day.

On the day before yesterday Christoph Madrucci, the Cardinal of Trent,

his warlike brother Hildebrand, and the Count of Arco had arrived,

bringing news from the Council; but on the morrow Duke Maurice of Saxony

was expected, and the most important negotiations were to be carried on

not only with him, but also with the former, each individual being dealt

with singly and at different hours.

In the evening the welcome guest was to be entertained by music and, if

agreeable to Barbara, by singing also. On the twenty-fifth the city had

decided to give a May festival under the lindens in honour of the duke.

The Emperor and the whole court were of course invited.

Barbara then acknowledged that she was fond of such magnificent

exhibitions, and begged Charles to allow her to attend the festival with

the marquise.

The answer was an assent, but the Emperor gave it after some delay, and

with the remark that he could devote little time to her, and expected

that she would subject herself to some restraint.

True, the painful surprise which her features expressed vividly enough

led him to add the apology that, on account of the presence of the two

cardinals--for one had come from Augsburg--he would be compelled to

deny himself the pleasure of showing her anything more than courteous

consideration in public; but she could not succeed in conquering the

mortification which, besides the grief of disappointment, had taken

possession of her sensitive soul.

Charles probably perceived, by the alternate flushing and paling of her

cheeks, what was passing in her thoughts, and would gladly have soothed

her; but he refrained, and forced himself to be content with the few

conciliatory words which he had already addressed to her.

Great events were impending. If he decided upon war, nothing, not even

love, could be permitted to encroach too heavily upon his time and

strength; but Barbara and the demands which her love made upon him

would surely do this if he did not early impose moderation upon her and

himself.

He had heard nothing about the sale of the star, and whatever had

displeased him in Barbara’s conduct during the last few weeks she had

succeeded in effacing. Yet he had often been on the point of breaking

off his relations with her, for just at this time it was of infinite

importance that he should keep himself free and strong in mind and body.

Moreover, in a few days he expected his brother Ferdinand with his grown

children. Two of his nieces were to be married here in his presence,

and he felt that he ought not to let either them or the Cardinal of

Trent--who was coming from the Council and would return there--see how

strong were the fetters with which, at his age and just at this time, he

allowed himself to be bound by love for a beautiful singer.

The wisdom which had long been characteristic of him commanded him to

sever abruptly the connection with the woman he loved and remove her

from his path. But the demands of the heart and the senses were too

powerful for the man who indulged to excess in fiery wine and spiced

foods, though he knew that greater abstinence would have spared him

torturing pangs.

He had succeeded hundreds of times in obtaining the victory over other

urgent wishes, and conquering strong affections. But this was different,

for separation from Barbara must, at any rate, destroy the exquisite

late happiness of the newly unfolded enjoyment of life, and for this

heavy loss he saw no compensation. To part from her entirely, therefore,

seemed to him impossible--at any rate, for the present. On the other

hand, the duty of the sovereign and consideration for his relatives both

commanded him to restrict the demands of her passionate young heart and

his own, which had so recently awaked from slumber.

He had recognised this necessity, and considered the pros and cons

precisely as if the matter were a political question. He who, without

the quiver of an eyelash, had sent many a band of soldiers to certain

death in order to execute a well-conceived plan of battle, was compelled

to inflict keen suffering upon the woman he loved and himself, that

greater interests might not be injured.

He had commenced the retreat that day.

The constraint which it was necessary to impose upon themselves must be

equally painful to them both, yet this could not be altered.

Had it affected him alone, in defiance of his sense of rank and the

tyranny of court etiquette, he would have led Barbara, attired like a

true queen, with his own hand to the festival under the lindens, but the

gratification of this heartfelt wish would have entailed too many evil

consequences.

Toying with her, who so quickly understood and so gratefully accepted

the gifts of the intellect which he offered, was so sweet, but in these

days it must not be permitted to impair mental repose, keen thought.

What he had to discuss and settle with Maurice of Saxony and Cardinal

Madrucci was of too momentous importance to the destiny of the world, to

the Church, to his fame as a sovereign, to his own greatness and that of

his race.

He would have liked best to send Barbara away from Ratisbon, as he had

despatched her father three weeks before, and not recall her until these

decisive days were over; but this was prohibited by his ardent desire

for her presence, her clever questions and appreciative listening,

and, above all, her singing, which he valued perhaps even more than her

beauty.

Had he confided to Barbara the important reasons which compelled him to

impose restrictions for a short time upon the demands of his heart,

she, who esteemed his grandeur little less than his love, would have

cheerfully submitted to what was necessary and right; but truthfulness

and frankness were far more characteristic of her nature than of that of

the politician who was accustomed to the tricks and evasions of the

time of Machiavelli. He never lacked credible reasons when he desired

to place an intention in a favourable light, and where he wished to keep

Barbara away from him, during the next few days, such were certainly to

be found in each individual instance. Suppose the woman he loved did not

accept them? So much the worse for her; he was the Emperor.

As for Barbara, with the subtle power of presentiment of a loving heart

she felt that his passion was waning, and tortured her mobile intellect

to discover the right cause.

If the luckless star was connected with it, why had he not blamed her

openly?

No, no!

Adrian had already predicted it; his constancy could not be relied upon,

and if war was in prospect he forgot everything that was usually dear to

his heart, and the appearance of the Duke of Saxony certainly seemed to

indicate an outbreak. Many an intimation of the Emperor, Granvelle, and

the almoner seemed to suggest this, and, deeply troubled, she went to

rest.

During the silent night her worst fears became certainty.

She recalled to mind every hour which they had spent alone together.

Some change had certainly taken place in him of late.

During her visit as a page the passion of former days had once more

glowed hotly, as the fire on the hearth blazes up brightly before it

expires.

The alteration had begun with the reproaches for her visit to the

suffering Wolf. Now he was aiming to rid himself of her, though with

a considerate hand. And she, what could she do to win back the man who

held every fixed resolve as firmly as the rocks of the cliff hold the

pine which grows from them?

Nothing, except to bear patiently whatever he inflicted upon her.

This, however, seemed to her so impossible and painful, so humiliating

and shocking, that she sprang from her bed and for a long time paced

with bare feet the sleeping-room, which was but dimly lighted by the

lamp. Yet all her thoughts and pondering were futile, and when she lay

down again she slept until mass.

By daylight she found that she had regarded matters in far too dark a

light. True, Charles probably no longer loved her as ardently as before,

yet she need scarcely fear the worst at present. But the bare thought

of having so soon lost the power to bind him to her aroused a storm of

feeling in her passionate soul, and when it subsided bitter thoughts

followed, and a series of plans which, on closer examination, proved

impracticable.

The day dragged slowly along.

During the ride in the country she was so depressed and downcast that

her companions asked what troubled her.

The lonely evening seemed endless. A short letter from her father, which

informed her that he had not expected too much of himself, and was in

good health, she cast aside after reading. During the night the feeling

of unhappiness and apprehension increased. But the next morning the sun

shone brightly into her windows, and after mass a messenger from the

Golden Cross announced that Duke Maurice of Saxony had arrived, and in

the afternoon his Majesty wished to see her and hear her sing.

This news cheered her wonderfully; but while Fran Lerch was dressing her

she, too, missed the star, and it seemed to Barbara that with it she had

lost a portion of her charm.

In going out, the marquise met her in the corridor, but Barbara passed

without returning her greeting.

When she arrived, the company had assembled in the chapel. The Duke of

Saxony sat between the Emperor and Granvelle.

What a handsome, knightly man this Maurice was! A prince from head to

foot, young, and yet, while talking with the Emperor and Granvelle,

grave and self-possessed as if he felt himself their peer.

And what fire glowed in his bright glance whenever it rested upon her!

In the chase and over the wine-cup this brave soldier and subtle

statesman was said scarcely to have his equal. Many tales of his

successes with fair women had been told her. He pleased her, too, in

spite of the bold, free manner in which he gazed at her, and which she

would not have tolerated in any one else.

After she had finished the last song, the duke expressed his

appreciation in gay, flattering words, at the same time complimenting

her beauty.

There had been something remarkably winning in his compliments; but when

she pleased her imperial lover, the acknowledgment was very different.

Then there was no mere praise clad in the form of enthusiastic homage,

but in addition always acute remarks. With the recognition blended

opinions which revealed the true connoisseur.

This Maurice was certainly wise and brave, and, moreover, far handsomer

than his imperial master; but what illumined Charles’s prominent brow

and brilliant eyes she had never beheld in any one else. To him, to him

alone her heart belonged, worthy of esteem as the duke, who was so much

his junior, appeared.

While taking leave the Saxon held her hand in his for a time and, as

she permitted it, she met a glance from her lover which warned her to be

ware of incautious familiarity with this breaker of hearts.

Barbara felt as if a sudden brightness had filled her soul, and on her

way home the seed which that look had cast into it began to put forth

vigorous shoots.

The ardent young Saxon duke would have been a dangerous rival for any

one, even the handsomest and most powerful of men. Suppose that she

should profit by the wish he showed so plainly, and through jealousy

bind the man whom she loved anew and more firmly than ever?

She probably admitted to herself that in doing so she would incur a

great risk, but it seemed easier to lose her greatest treasure entirely

than only to half possess it; and when she had once looked this thought

in the face it attracted her, as with the gaze of a basilisk, more and

more strongly.

The afternoon of the following day, with the marquise, she entered the

scene of festivity under the lindens.

To punish Barbara for not returning her greeting, the gray-haired lady

in waiting had at first been inclined to excuse herself on the plea of

illness; but the taste for amusement with which her nature was still

pervaded, as well as curiosity to see the much-discussed Duke Maurice,

and the desire to watch Barbara’s conduct, drew her to the place where

the festival was held.

Ratisbon had done her best to receive this guest, whom she especially

desired to honour, with all possible magnificence. Flags and streamers

bearing the colours of the empire, with the Burgundian red and gold

of the Emperor, the silver-crossed keys on a red field of the city of

Ratisbon, and with the Saxon coats of arms, rose amid the leafy tops of

the lindens, and floated from tall poles in the sunny May air. The blue

and yellow Saxon flag, with the black and yellow chevron in the field

and a lozenged chaplet from the left corner to the top, was more

frequently seen than any other banner.

Even though this festival was held for Duke Maurice, no one could fail

to notice how much more space was given to his escutcheon than to the

Emperor’s.

The entertainment had opened at noon with a tournament and riding at the

ring. The duke had participated in the sport a short time, and carried

off several rings on his sword while in full career.

The Emperor had held aloof from this game, in which he had formerly

joined gladly and with much skill, but, on the other hand, he had

promised to appear at the festival under the lindens, which was to last

until night. The Council had had a magnificent tent erected for him,

Duke Maurice, and the court, and in order to ornament the interior

suitably had allowed the use of the beautiful tapestries in the town

hall. These represented familiar incidents from famous love tales:

Tristan and Isolde seeing the face of King Mark in the mirror of the

spring, Frau Venus as, surrounded by her court, she receives Tannhauser

in the Horselberg, and similar scenes. Other art textiles showed

incidents in the lives of forest people--little men and women in striped

linen garments, wonderful trees and birds such as no human eye ever

beheld--but above the hangings a row of coats of arms again appeared, in

which the imperial escutcheon alternated with the Saxon.

The front of the tent, covered with red and white material, stood open,

permitting the guests who did not belong to the court to survey the

interior.

Artistic platters, large dishes, in which dainty sweets and fruits were

gracefully heaped and the cathedral of Ratisbon and other devices stood,

the costly silverware of the city, and many beautifully formed wine

flagons attracted the gaze. Beside these were dishes of roast meats,

fish, and cakes for the illustrious guests.

Stewards and guards of the Council, clad in red and white, with the

crossed keys in silver embroidery on the shoulder, offered refreshments.

Two superb thrones stood ready for the Emperor and the duke, easy-chairs

for the cardinals, princes, and counts, stools for the barons, knights,

and ladies.

Opposite to the tent stands were erected for the Council, the patrician

families, and the other ladies and gentlemen whom the city had invited

to the festival. In their midst rose a large, richly decorated stage for

the Emperor’s orchestra, which, with his Majesty’s permission, had

been induced to play a few pieces, and by the side of the stands was

a towerlike structure, from whose summit the city pipers of Ratisbon,

joined by those of Landshut, were to be heard.

A large, round stage, encircled by a fence of young birch logs, had been

built for dancing amid the leafy lindens, and stood directly opposite to

the imperial tent. Near the linden-shaded square at the shooting

house were posted the cannon and howitzers, which were to receive the

distinguished guests with loud volleys and lend fresh animation to the

festival.

The Lindenplatz belonged to the same suburb of Prebrunn in which stood

the little castle of the Prince Abbot of Berchtesgaden, which Barbara

occupied. So, during the short distance which she and the marquise had

to traverse in litters, uproar, music, and the thunder of artillery

greeted them.

This exerted an intoxicating influence upon Barbara, who had been so

long absent from such scenes. At home she had abandoned her intention

of arousing the Emperor’s jealousy; now her excited nerves urged her to

execute it. The advantage she hoped to derive was well worth the risk.

But if the bold game failed, and the proud, sensitive monarch should be

seriously angry----

Just then shots crashed again, music and shouts echoed more loudly in

her ears.

“A Blomberg does not fear,” and with newly awakened defiance she closed

her ears to the warning voice.

The festival was commencing.

She, too, would be gay for once, and if she was cautious the bold

enterprise must succeed. A merry evening awaited her and, if all went

well, on the morrow, after a few unpleasant hours, her lover’s whole

heart would once more be hers.

When she reached the scene of festivity it was already thronged with

richly attired princes and counts, knights and ladies, citizens of

Ratisbon, as well as nobles and distinguished townspeople from the

neighbouring castles, citadels, and cities.

Music and a loud medley of shouts and conversation greeted her at her

entrance. Her heart throbbed quickly, for she did not forget her daring

purpose, and a throng of memories of modest but more carefree days

rushed upon her.

Here, when a little girl, she had attended the May festival

Virgatum--which owed its name to the green rods or twigs with which the

school children adorned themselves--and played under yonder lindens with

Wolf, with the wilder Erasmus, and other boys. How delightful it had

been!--and when the enlarged band of city pipers struck up a gavotte

her feet unconsciously kept time, and she could not help thinking of the

last dance in the New Scales, the recruiting officer who had guided her

so firmly and skilfully in the Schwabeln, and through him of her father,

of whom she had not thought again since the good news received two

evenings before.

She still stood at the crowded entrance gazing around her.

The interior of the imperial tent could not be seen from here, but she

could overlook the stand of the noble families, and there she saw her

cousins Anne Mirl and Nandl Woller, with Martina Hiltner beside them.

She had refused to receive all three in her little castle at Prebrunn;

the true reason she alone knew. Her excuse had perhaps appeared to the

girls trivial and unkind.

Now her glance met Nandl’s, and her warmhearted friend beckoned eagerly

to her; but her mother drew her arm down, and it was evident that the

corpulent lady said something reproving.

Barbara looked away from the stand, and the question where her place was

here suddenly disturbed her.

She had received no invitation from the Council of the city, and perhaps

she would have been refused admittance to the stand. She did not know

whether before the Emperor’s arrival she would be received in the court

tent, which Cardinal Madrucci of Trent, in superb scarlet robes, was

just approaching, and an oppressive anxiety again subdued the courage

which had just resolved on the boldest venture.

At that moment Baron Malfalconnet saw her, and instantly approached.

Gaily offering one arm to her and the other to the marquise, he escorted

both to the tent, whispering meanwhile in Barbara’s ear, “Glowing

summer, between spring and winter,” and, as soon as he had taken them to

the buffet, off he hurried again to offer his arm to the Margravine of

Leuchtenberg, who was followed by two charming daughters, with pretty

pages bearing their trains.

How the gold, jewels, and shining armour in the tent glittered! How the

crimson glowed, the plumes waved, the heavy velvet attracted the eye

by rich hues, the light laces by their delicate fineness! How the silk

rustled, and one superb piece of fur vied with the other in costliness,

the white with the red rose in beauty!

Barbara involuntarily looked at her sea-green brocade, and felt its

heavy texture and the softness of the fur trimming on the overdress,

which at home she had called a masterpiece of Frau Lerch’s work. She

could be satisfied with her appearance, and the string of pearls on her

neck and the bracelet which her lover had sent to her, after her visit

in the page’s costume, were also costly ornaments. The magnificent star

was missing; in its place she wore at the square-cut neck of her

dress two beautiful halfblown roses, and her mirror had showed her how

becoming they were.

She did not need gold or gems. What gave her power to subdue the hearts

of men was of higher value.

Yet, when she mingled among the other dignitaries, she felt like an

intruder in this circle.

The marquise had left her, and joined those of her own rank. Most of the

ladies were strangers to Barbara, and she was avoided by those whom she

knew; but, to make amends, she was soon surrounded by many aristocratic

gentlemen, and her mobile nature speedily made her forget what had just

depressed her joyous spirit.

Then the cannon and culverins thundered louder, the blare of trumpets

rent the air with deafening shrillness, the ringing of bells in all the

steeples of Ratisbon, the exulting shouts of the crowd upon the stands

and in the whole Lindenplatz poured in mighty waves of sound into the

tent, where the nobles and aristocratic ladies around Barbara now raised

their voices also.

With a throbbing heart she mingled her cheers with those of the others

and, like them, waved her handkerchief and her fan.

The man whom she loved was approaching! This crashing and echoing, this

wild uproar of enthusiastic shouts and cries, this flutter of flags

and waving of handkerchiefs were all in his honour and, stirred to her

inmost soul by impetuous enthusiasm and ardent gratitude, her eyes grew

dim with tears, and she joined far more loudly and freely in the

cheers of the multitude than the aristocrats around her, to whom court

etiquette dictated reserve on all occasions, even this one.

The loving woman saw nothing save the man who was advancing. How should

she have noticed the scornful glances which her unrestrained vivacity

elicited?

Her gaze was fixed solely upon the one sun to which the little stars

around her owed their paler or brighter radiance. She scarcely noticed

even the handsome young prince at Charles’s side. Yet Duke Maurice would

have been well worthy of her whole attention, for with what a free,

proud step he advanced, while his imperial master used his arm as a

support!

Charles also looked magnificent in the Castilian court costume, with the

chain of the Grand Master of the Golden Fleece about his neck; but

the young Saxon duke was considerably his superior in height, and the

silver-embroidered, steel-gray suit of Spanish cut and the black velvet

mantle trimmed with a border of marten fur, were extremely becoming.

Both saluted the crowd that welcomed them so warmly and loudly,

gazing meanwhile at the festal scene, the Emperor with haughty, almost

indifferent dignity, the duke with less reserve and more eager gestures.

Barbara knew the sovereign, and when she saw him thrust his lower lip

slightly forward she was sure that something vexed him.

Perhaps she ought not to venture to irritate the lion that day.

Was his anger roused by the boldness of the city magistrates, who dared

to favour the Saxon escutcheon and banners so openly? It seemed to her

exasperating, punishable insolence. But perhaps in his greatness he did

not grudge this distinction to a guest so much his inferior, and it was

only the gout again inflicting its pangs upon his poor tortured foot.

The way was strewn with leaves and green branches, and the Saxon was

leading her lord directly over the hard little boughs in the middle of

the path. Barbara would fain have called to him to look at the ground

and not up at the banners and escutcheons bearing his colours, whose

number seemed to flatter him. Had Charles been leaning on her arm, she

would have performed the office of guide better.

At last the distinguished pair, with the companions who followed them,

reached the tent and took their seats upon the thrones. Again Maurice

gazed eagerly around him, but Charles vouchsafed the Lindenplatz and

stands only a few careless glances. He had no time to do more, for the

young Landgravines of Leuchtenber; and several other newcomers at court

were presented to him by the Count of Nassau, and, after greeting the

occupants of the tent by a gracious gesture, the monarch addressed a few

kind words to each.

Barbara was obliged to content herself with the others, yet her heart

ached secretly that he gave her no word of welcome.

Then, when the performances began and the chamberlains and major-domo

seated the aristocratic ladies and older dignitaries according to their

sex and rank, and she was thus placed very far in the rear, she felt

it as a grievous injustice. Was she no longer the love of the man who

reigned over everything here? And since no one could deny this claim,

why need she be satisfied with a place beside the insignificant ladies

of honour of the princelings who were present?

How forsaken and ill-treated she seemed to herself!

But there was Don Luis Quijada already making his way to her to bring a

greeting from his Majesty and escort her to a place from which she could

have a better view of what the city had arranged for the entertainment

of the distinguished guest.

So she was not wholly forgotten by her lover, but with what scanty alms

he fed her!

What did she care for the exhibition which was about to begin?

The minutes dragged on at a snail’s pace while the lanterns on the

lindens and poles, the torches, and pitch pans were lighted.

Had not the gentlemen and ladies been so completely separated, it

might perhaps have been a little gay. But, as it was, no one of the

aristocratic women who surrounded her granted her even one poor word;

but the number of glances, open and secret, cast at her became all the

greater as one noble dame whispered to another that she was the singer

whom his Majesty condescended to distinguish in so remarkable a manner.

To know that she was thus watched might be endured, as she was aware

that she could be satisfied with her appearance, but vanity compelled

her to assume an expression and bearing which would not disappoint

the gazers, and after the performances began this imposed a wearisome

restraint.

Once only was her solitude in the midst of this great company pleasantly

interrupted, for the Bishop of Arras, without troubling himself about

the separation of the sexes, had sought her out and whispered that he

had something to ask of her, whose details they would discuss later. On

the evening of the day after to-morrow his Majesty’s most distinguished

guests, with their ladies, were to assemble at his house. If she desired

to place him under the deepest obligations, she would join them there

and adorn the festival with her singing. Barbara asked in a low tone

whether the Emperor would also be present, and the statesman, smiling,

answered that court etiquette prohibited such things. Yet it was not

impossible that, as a special favour, his Majesty might listen for

a short time in the festal hall, only he feared that the gout might

interpose--the evil guest was already giving slight warnings of its

approach.

Then, without waiting for a reply, the young minister went back to his

royal master; but his invitation exerted a disturbing influence

upon Barbara. She would have been more than glad to accept, for

the entertainments of the Bishop of Arras were unequalled in varied

attractions, magnificence, and gaiety, and what a satisfaction to her

ambition it would be to sing before such an audience, dine at the same

table with such ladies and gentlemen! She knew also how heavily this

man’s favour would weigh in the scales with the Emperor, yet to appear

at the banquet without her lover’s knowledge was utterly impossible,

and just now she felt reluctant to ask his permission. What heavy chains

loaded the favoured woman who possessed the love of this greatest of

sovereigns!

However, reflections concerning Granvelle’s invitation passed away

the time until the lighting of the Lindenplatz was completed. Then the

shrill blare of trumpets again rent the air, the city pipers in the

towers struck up a gay march, and the entertainment began.

The gods of Olympus, led by Fame and Fortune, offered their homage to

the Emperor. A youth from the school of poets, attired as the goddess

of Fame, bewailed in well-rhymed verses that for a long time no one

had given her so much to do as the Emperor Charles. His comrade, who,

bearing a cornucopia in his arms, represented Fortune, assured her

companion, in still more bombastic verse, that she should certainly

expect far more from her, the goddess of Fame, in favour of his Majesty.

This would continue until her own end and that of all the Olympians,

because the Emperor Charles himself was an immortal. He had made them

both subject to him. Fortune as well as Fame must obey his sign. But

there was another younger friend of the gods for whom, on account of the

shortness of his life, they had been able to do less, but for whom they

also held in readiness their best and greatest gifts. He, too, would

succeed in rendering them his subjects. While speaking, Fortune pointed

with the cornucopia and Fame with the trumpet to Duke Maurice, and

besought their indulgent lord and master, the Emperor Charles, to be

permitted to show some of their young favourite’s possessions, by whose

means he, too, would succeed in retaining them in his service.

Then Pallas Athene appeared with the university city of Leipsic, the

latter laden with all sorts of symbols of knowledge. Next came Plutus,

the god of Wealth, followed by Freiberg miners bearing large specimens

of silver ore in buckets and baskets; and, lastly, Mars, the god of War,

leading by a long chain two camels on which rode captive and fettered

Turks.

During these spectacles, which were followed by other similar ones,

Barbara had been thinking of her own affairs, and gazed more frequently

at her lover and his distinguished guests than at the former.

But the next group interested her more because it seemed to honour the

Emperor’s taste for astronomy, of which he had often talked with her.

On a long cart, drawn by powerful stallions, appeared a gigantic

firmament in the shape of a hemisphere, on whose upper surface the sun,

moon, and stars were seen shining in radiant light. The moon passed

through all her changes, the sun and planets moved, and from the dome

echoed songs and lute-playing, which were intended to represent the

music of the spheres. Another chorus was heard from a basket of flowers

of stupendous size. Among the natural and artificial blossoms sat and

lay upon leaves and in the calyxes of the flowers child genii, who flung

to the Emperor beautiful bouquets, and into the laps and at the feet of

the ladies in the tent smaller ones and single flowers.

Barbara, too, did not go with empty hands. The Cupid who had thrown

his to her was the little Maltese Hannibal, who sang with other boys as

“Voices of the Flowers,” and later was to take part in the great chorus.

This friendly remembrance of her young fellow-artist cheered Barbara,

and when a fight began, which was carried on by a dozen trained

champions brought from Strasburg expressly for this purpose, she turned

her attention to it.

At first this dealing blows at one another with blunt weapons offered

her little amusement; but when shouts from the tent and the stands

cheered the men from the Mark, and powerful blows incensed to fury those

who were struck, the scene began to enthral her.

A handsome, agile youth, to her sincere regret, had just fallen, but

swiftly recovered his elasticity, and, springing to his feet, belaboured

his opponent, a clumsy giant, so skilfully and vigorously that the

bright blood streamed down his ugly face and big body. Barbara’s cheeks

flushed with sympathy. That was right. Skill and grace ought everywhere

to conquer hideous rude force.

If she had been a man she would have found her greatest happiness, as

her father did, in battle, in measuring her own strength with another’s.

Now she was obliged to defend herself with other weapons than blunt

swords, and when she saw the champions, six against six, again rush upon

one another, and one side drive the other back, her vivid imagination

transported her into the midst of the victors, and it seemed as if the

marquise and the whole throng of arrogant dames in the tent, as well as

the Ratisbon women on the stands who had insulted her by their haughty

airs of virtue, were fleeing from her presence.

How repulsive these envious, hypocritical people were! How she hated

everything that threatened to estrange her lover’s heart! To them also

belonged the scoundrel who, she supposed, had betrayed the sale of the

star to the Emperor. She resolved to confess to Charles how she had been

led to commit this offence, which was indeed hard to forgive. Perhaps

all would then be well again, for in this unfortunate action she could

recognise the sole wrong which she had ever inflicted upon her lover.

She could not help attributing his humiliating manner to it alone, for

her love had always remained the same, and only yesterday, after she had

sung before the Duke of Saxony, Appenzelder, who never flattered, had

assured her that her voice had gained in power, her expression in depth,

and she herself felt that it was so.

Music was still the firmest bond that united her to her lover. So long

as her art remained faithful, he could not abandon her. This conviction

was transformed into certainty when the final performance began, and the

Ratisbon choir, under the direction of Damian Feys, commenced the mighty

hymn with which the composer, Jean Courtois, had greeted the Emperor

Charles in Cambray:

“Venite populi terrai”--“Come hither, ye nations of the earth”--this

motet for four voices called imperiously to all mankind like a joyous

summons.

“Ave Cesar, ave majestas sacra,” sounded in solemn, religious tones

the greeting to the greatest of monarchs. It seemed to transport the

listener to the summit of the cathedral, as the choir now called to the

ruler that the earth was full of his renown. The Ratisbon singers and

the able Feys did their best, and this mighty act of homage of all the

nations of the earth by no means failed to produce its effect upon him

to whom it was addressed.

While Barbara listened, deeply agitated, she did not avert her eyes from

her lover’s face, which was brightly illumined by a pyramid of candles

on each side of the two thrones.

Every trace of weariness, indifference, and discomfort had vanished from

Charles’s features. His heart, like hers--she knew it--was now throbbing

higher. If he had just been enduring pain, this singing must have driven

it away or lessened it, and he had certainly felt gratefully what power

dwells in the divine art.

This noble composition, Barbara realized it, would again draw her near

her lover, and the confirmation of this hope was not delayed, for as

soon as the last notes of the motet and the storm of applause that

followed had died away, the Emperor, amid the renewed roar of the

artillery, rose and looked around him--surely for her.

The good citizens of Ratisbon! No matter how much more bunting they had

cut up in honour of the Saxon duke than of the Emperor, how bombastic

were the verses composed and repeated in praise of Maurice, this paean

of homage put all their efforts to shame. It suited only one, lauded

a grandeur and dignity which stood firm as indestructible cliffs, and

which no one here possessed save the Emperor Charles.

Who would have ventured to apply this motet to the brave and clever

Saxon, high as he, too, towered above most of his peers? What did the

nations of the earth know about him? How small was the world still that

was full of his renown!

This singing had reminded both princes of Barbara, and they looked for

her. The Emperor perceived her first, beckoned kindly to her, and, after

conversing with her for a while so graciously that it aroused the envy

of the other ladies in the tent, he said eagerly: “Not sung amiss for

your Ratisbon, I should think. But how this superb composition was

sung six years ago at Catnbray, under the direction of Courtois

himself!--that, yes, that is one of the things never to be forgotten.

Thirty-four singers, and what power, what precision, and, moreover, the

great charm of novelty! I have certainly been permitted to hear many

things----”

Here he paused; the Cardinal of Trent was approaching with the Bishop of

Arras.

The younger Granvelle, with his father, had also been present at

the performance of this motet of homage at Cambray, and respectfully

confirmed his Majesty’s remark, speaking with special warmth of the

fervour and delicacy with which Jean Courtois had conducted the choir.

The cardinal had no wish to detract from the merits of the Netherland

maestro, but he called the Emperor’s attention to young Orlando di

Lasso, the leader of the orchestra in the Lateran at Rome, who, in his

opinion, was destined as a composer and conductor to cast into the shade

all the musicians of his time. He was born in Hennegau. The goddess of

Music continued to honour the Netherlands with her special favour.

During this conversation Barbara had stepped modestly aside. Charles

glanced toward her several times to address her again, but when the

Bishop of Arras whispered that, before the commencement of the festival,

the cardinal had received despatches from the Council and from Rome, he

motioned to both prelates to follow him, and, paying no further heed

to Barbara--nay, without even vouchsafing her a farewell wave of the

hand--conducted them to the rear of the tent.

Again the girl’s heart ached in her abandonment. Duke Maurice, too, had

vanished. When he saw the Emperor address her he had left the tent.

Dancing had begun, and he was now accepting the invitation of the

magistrate Ambrosius Ammann to inaugurate the young people’s pleasure as

leader of the Polish dance.

For a time Barbara stood as if spellbound to the spot where her lover

had so suddenly turned away from her.

She was again experiencing what Adrian had predicted--politics made

Charles forget everything else, even love. How would it be when war

actually came?

Now, after the Emperor had showed her that he still deemed her worthy

of regard, she felt for the first time thoroughly neglected, and with

difficulty restrained her tears. She would have liked to follow Charles,

and at every peril whisper softly, so that he alone could hear, yet with

all the sharpness of her resentment, that it was unchivalrous to leave

her standing here like an outcast, and that she demanded to learn why

she had forfeited his love.

The wild throbbing of her heart impeded her breathing, and, in the

indignation of her soul, she longed to escape fresh humiliation and to

leave the festival.

But again Baron Malfalconnet appeared as a preserver in the hour of

need, and, with the profound submissiveness bordering upon mockery which

he always showed her, asked why she had so speedily deprived his Majesty

of the pleasure of her society. Barbara gave way to her wrath and, while

vehemently forbidding the unseemly jibe, glanced with a bitter smile

toward the Emperor, who, in conversation with the two dignitaries,

seemed to have forgotten everything around him.

“The destiny of the world,” observed the baron, “can not be set to

dance music. The domain of your obedient admirer, Malfalconnet, on the

contrary, obeys solely the heart throbs in this loyal breast; and if

you, fairest of women, will allow yourself to be satisfied with so small

a realm of sovereignty, it is at your disposal, together with these

tolerably agile feet, which still wait in vain for the well-merited

imperial gout.”

The sharp refusal which this proposition received amused the baron

instead of offending him, and passing into a more conversational tone,

he proposed to her to leave this abode of ennui, where even the poor

satyrs on the hangings were holding their big hands over their mouths to

hide their yawns, and go with him to the dancing floor.

Barbara laid her hand on his arm and followed him to the pleasure ground

under the lindens, where the pretty daughters of the Ratisbon noble

families had just commenced a dance with the gentlemen belonging to

their circle.

Barbara had gone to school, exchanged kisses, and was a relative or

friend of most of these young girls in light gala dresses, adorned with

coloured flowers, whose names Malfalconnet asked, yet, after an interval

of these few weeks, she met them like a stranger.

The love which united her to the Emperor had raised her far above them.

Accustomed to give herself up entirely to the gifts which the present

offered, she had turned her back on Ratisbon and its inhabitants, with

whom, during this period of happiness she could easily dispense, as if

they were a forgotten world. There was no one in her native city whom

she seriously missed or to whom she was strongly drawn. That she, too,

offered these people little, and was of small importance, self-love had

never permitted her to realize, and therefore she felt an emotion of

painful surprise when she perceived the deep gulf which separated her

from her fellow-citizens of both sexes.

Now her old friends and acquaintances showed her plainly enough how

little they cared for her withdrawal.

Pretty Elspet Zohrer, with whom she had contended for the recruiting

officer, Pyramus Kogel, was standing opposite to her, by her partner’s

side, in the same row with charming little Mietz Schiltl, Anne Mirl

Woller, her cousin, Marg Thun, and the others.

The Zauner, which they were dancing with a solemn dignity that aroused

the baron’s mirth, afforded them an opportunity to look around them, and

they eagerly availed themselves of it; nay, they almost all glanced at

Barbara, and then, with evident intention, away from her, after Elspet

Zohrer, with a contemptuous elevation of her dainty little snub nose,

had ignored her schoolmate’s greeting.

Barbara drew herself up, and the air of unapproachable dignity which she

assumed well suited the aristocratic gentleman at her side, whom every

one knew as the most brilliant, witty, and extravagant noble at the

Emperor’s court. At the same time she addressed the baron, whom she had

hitherto kept at a distance, with unconstrained familiarity, and as

the eyes of the mothers also rested upon her, remarks which might

have driven the blood to her cheeks were made upon the intimate terms

existing between the “Emperor’s sweetheart” and the profligate and

spendthrift Malfalconnet.

True, Barbara could not understand what they were saying, but it was

easy enough to perceive in what way they were talking about her.

Yet what gave these women the right to condemn her?

They bore her a grudge because she had distinguished herself by her

art, while their little geese were idle at home or, at most, busied

themselves in the kitchen, at the spinning wheel, in dancing, and

whatever was connected with it while waiting for their future husbands.

The favour which the most illustrious of mortals showed her they imputed

to her as a crime.

How could they know that she was more to the Emperor than the artist

whose singing enraptured him?

The girls yonder--her Woller cousins certainly--merely held aloof

because their mothers commanded them to do it. Only in the case of a few

need she fear that jealousy and envy had taken possession of them. Yet

what did she care for them and their behaviour? She looked over their

heads with the air of a queen.

But what was the meaning of this?

As soon as the dance was over, a pretty young girl, scarcely seventeen

years old, with blue forget-me-nots in her fair hair and on her breast,

left her partner and came directly toward Barbara.

Her head drooped and she hesitated shyly as she did so, but her modest

timidity was so charming that the dissolute courtier at Barbara’s

side felt a throb of sympathy, and gazed down at her like a benevolent

fatherly friend as she held out her hand to his companion.

He did not think Martina Hiltner actually beautiful as she stood close

before him, but, on the other hand, inexpressibly charming in her modest

grace.

That it was she who came to Barbara so confidingly increased his good

opinion of the self-reliant, hot-blooded girl who had won the Emperor’s

love, and therefore he was deeply angered when the latter answered

Martina’s greeting curtly and coldly, and, without vouchsafing her any

further words, requested him to summon one of the attendants who were

serving refreshments.

Malfalconnet glanced significantly toward Martina, and, while offering

Barbara a goblet of lemonade, said, “There is candied lemon and other

seasoning in it, so it will probably suit your taste, exacting beauty,

since you appear to dislike what is pure.”

“Only when poison is mixed with it,” she answered quickly, tossing her

head arrogantly. Then, controlling herself, she added in an explanatory

tone: “In this case, Baron, your far-famed penetration deceived you. It

gave me more pain than you will believe to reject the friendly advances

of this lovely child, but her father is the head of the Lutheran heresy

here, and the almoner----”

“Then that certainly alters the case,” the other interrupted. “Where

the Holy Inquisition threatens, I should be capable of denying a friend

thrice ere the cock crew. But what a number of charming young faces

there are on this Lindenplatz! Here one can understand why Ratisbon,

like the French Arles, is famed for the beauty of her daughters. It was

not easy for you to earn the reputation of the greatest beauty here. You

have also gained that of the most cruel one. You make me feel it. But if

you wish to cast into oblivion the poisoned cup proffered just now, do

me the favour to trust yourself to my guidance in the next dance.”

“Impossible,” answered Barbara firmly. “If I were really cruel, I would

yield to your skill in tempting, and render you the base betrayer of the

greatest and noblest of masters.”

“Does not every one who gazes at your beauty or listens to your song

become such a monster, at least in thought?” asked the baron gaily. “Are

you really so inexorable about the dance?”

“As this statue,” Barbara answered with mirthful resolution, pointing

to a plaster figure which was intended to represent the goddess Flora

or the month of May. “But let us stay here a few minutes longer, though

only as spectators.”

Barbara expressed this wish because a group of young gentlemen, who had

always been among those who sought her most eagerly for a partner at the

dances in the New Scales, had attracted her attention. They were

engaged in an animated discussion, which from their glances and gestures

evidently concerned Barbara.

Bernhard Trainer, the tall son of an old and wealthy family, who loved

Martina Hiltner, and had been incensed by Barbara’s treatment of her,

seemed to gain his point, and when the city pipers began to play again,

all of them--probably a dozen in number--passed by her arm-in-arm in

couples, with their eyes studiously fixed upon the opposite side of the

dancing floor.

Barbara could entertain no doubt that this insulting act was intended to

wound her. The “little castle,” as it was called in Prebrunn, owned

by Bernhard Trainer’s family, was near the bishop’s house which she

occupied. Therefore the Trainers had probably heard more than others

about the visits she received. Or did the gentlemen consider that she

deserved punishment for not treating Martina more kindly?

Whatever might have caused the unseemly act, in Barbara’s eyes it was a

base trick, which filled her with furious rage against the instigators.

Had she shared the Emperor’s power, it would have been a delight to her

in this hour to repay the malignant insult in the same or far heavier

coin. But, on Malfalconnet’s account, she must submit in silence to what

had been inflicted upon her.

So, in a muffled tone, she requested the baron to take her back to the

tent, but while fulfilling her wish he wondered at the long strides of

the capricious young lady at his side, and the mortifying inattention

with which she received his questions.

Meanwhile the Emperor had returned to the throne, and Maurice of Saxony

was again standing beside him, while the chamberlain Andreas Wolff was

humbly, inviting the monarch to make the Ratisbon young people happy by

visiting the scene of the dancing.

After a dance of inquiry at the duke, Charles assented to this request.

But they must pardon him if he remained a shorter time than he himself

would desire, as the physician was urging his return home.

While the chamberlain was retiring, Charles saw Barbara leaning on

Malfalconnet’s arm, beckoned to them, and asked her whether she had

yielded to her love for dancing.

A brief “No, your Majesty,” assured him of the contrary, and led him to

make the remark that whoever exercised a noble art so admirably as she

would be wise to refrain from one which could afford nobody any higher

pleasure than the peasant and his sweetheart, if they only had sound

feet.

The counsel sounded harsh, almost warning, and the already irritated

girl with difficulty restrained a sharp reply; but the Emperor was

already rising, that, leaning on Quijada’s arm, he might seek the

dancing ground.

Meantime the young Saxon duke had approached Barbara, and expressed his

admiration of the successful festival, but she scarcely heard what

he said. Yet when she turned her face toward him, and his ardent gaze

rested yearningly upon her, she felt that the opportunity had now come

to carry out her half-forgotten intention of arousing the jealousy of

her royal lover.

Whatever it might cost, she must undertake the risk.

Summoning all her strength of will, she silenced the bitter resentment

which filled her heart, and a sunny glance told Duke Maurice how much

his escort pleased her. Malfalconnet had watched every look of the lady

on his arm, as well as the duke’s, and as they approached the scene

of the dance he asked the latter if his Highness would condescend to

relieve him for a short time of a delightful duty. An important one in

the service of his imperial Majesty----

Here the duke’s eager assent interrupted him, and the next moment

Barbara was leaning on the arm of the handsome young prince.

She had found in him the tool which she needed, and Maurice entered into

her design only too readily, for the baron had scarcely retired ere he

changed his tone of voice and began an attack upon her heart.

He had no need to respect the older rights of his imperial host, for

Charles had distrustfully concealed from him the bond which united him

to the beautiful singer. So, with glowing eloquence, he described to

Barbara how quickly and powerfully the spell of her beauty and her

wonderful art had fired his brain, and besought her to aid him not to

commence one of the most important periods of his life with a sore

heart and sick with longing; but she allowed him to speak, without

interrupting him by a single word.

She could not misunderstand what he desired, and many a glance permitted

him to interpret it in his favour; but resentment still continued to

stir in her soul, growing and deepening as the Emperor, seated on the

throne erected for him, without noticing her appearance, sometimes

listened to the chamberlain, who mentioned the names of the handsomest

dancers, sometimes addressed a question to the Bishop of Arras and the

other gentlemen who had followed him.

Her royal lover deprived her of even the possibility of rousing him by

jealousy from the consciousness of the secure possession of her person.

Besides, the flushed faces of the young men who had so shamelessly

insulted her were beaming before her with the joy of the festival.

But the expression of their features was already changing. Duke Maurice

had been recognised, and now all who felt entitled to do so approached

him, among them her foes, at their head Bernhard Trainer, who were

obliged to bend low before him, and therefore before her also.

Just then the city pipers struck up a gagliarde, and the music was the

air of the dancing-master’s song by Baldassaro Donati, which had roused

the Emperor’s indignation a few days ago. In imagination she again heard

his outburst of anger, again saw him rise from his seat in wrath at the

innocent “Chi la gagliarda vuol imparare.”

The time of reckoning had come, and he should pay her for the bitterness

of that hour! Yonder malevolent fellows, who now looked bewildered and

uneasy, should be forced to retreat before her and perceive what power

she had obtained by her beauty and her art.

With fevered blood and panting breath she listened to the gay music

of the enlarged band of city pipers, and watched the movements of

the couples who had already commenced the gagliarde, and--how was it

possible in such a mood?--a passionate desire to dance took possession

of her.

Without heeding the many persons who stood around them, she whispered

softly to the duke, “It would be a pleasure to keep time to the music of

the gagliarde with you, your Highness.”

An ardent love glance accompanied this invitation, and the bold Saxon

duke was a man to avail himself of every advantage.

He instantly expressed to the Ratisbon gentlemen his desire to try the

gagliarde himself to such excellent music, and at a sign from the master

of ceremonies the dance stopped.

Several members of the Council requested the couples to make way, and

Maurice took his partner’s hand and led her on the stage.

The sudden cessation of the music attracted the Emperor’s attention

also. In an instant he perceived what was about to take place, and

looked at Barbara. Her eyes met his, and such a glow of indignation,

nay, wrath, so imperious a prohibition flashed from his glance that

her flushed cheeks paled, and she strove to withdraw her hand from the

duke’s.

But Maurice held it firmly, and at the same moment the city pipers began

to play again, and the music streamed forth in full, joyous tones.

The wooing notes fell into her defiant soul like sparks on dry

brushwood. She could not help dancing, though it should be her death.

Already she had begun, and with mischievous joy the thought darted

through her mind that now Charles, too, would perceive what anguish lay

in the fear of losing those whom we love.

If this grief brought him back to her, she thought, while eagerly

following the figures of the dance, she would tend him all her life like

a maidservant; if his pride severed the bond between them--that could

not be done, because he loved her--she must bear it. Doubtless the

conviction forced itself upon her superstitious mind that Fate would

be ready to ruin her by the dance, yet she executed what must bring

misfortune upon her; to retreat was no longer possible.

These thoughts darted in wild confusion in a few moments through her

burning brain, and while Maurice swung her around it seemed as if the

music reached her through the roar and thunder of breakers. The words

“Chi la gagliarda vuol imparare” constantly echoed in her ears, mocking,

reckless, urging her to retaliation.

The dancing-master, Bernandelli, whom the Council had summoned from

Milan to the Danube, had taught her and the other young people of

Ratisbon the gagliarde. The sensible teacher, to suit the taste of the

German burghers, had divested the gay dance of its recklessness. But

he had showed his best pupils with how much more freedom the Italians

performed the gagliarde, and Barbara had not forgotten the lesson. Duke

Maurice moved and guided her with the same unfettered ease that the

little maestro had displayed in former days. Willing or not, she was

obliged to follow his lead, and she did so, carried away by the demands

of her excited blood and the pleasure of dancing, so long denied,

yet with the grace and perfect ear for time which were her special

characteristics.

Neither the Ratisbon citizens nor Charles, who had been a good dancer

himself, had ever seen the gagliarde danced in this way by either

the gentleman or the lady. A better-matched couple could scarcely

be imagined than the tall, powerful, chivalrous young prince and the

beautiful, superbly formed, golden-haired girl who seemed, as it were,

carried away by the music.

But Charles did not appear to share the pleasure which the sight of

this rare couple and their dancing awakened even in the most envious and

austere of the Ratisbon spectators, for when, in a pause, Barbara, with

sparkling eyes, glanced first into the duke’s face and then, with a

merry look of inquiry, at her lover, she found his features no longer

distorted by anger, but disgusted, as though he were witnessing an

unpleasant spectacle.

Nevertheless she danced a short time longer without looking at him,

until suddenly the remembrance of his reproving glance spoiled her

pleasure in this rare enjoyment.

She whispered to the duke that she was satisfied.

A wave of his hand stopped the music but, ere returning the bow of her

distinguished partner, Barbara looked for the Emperor.

Her eyes sought him in vain-he had left the turf under the lindens

before the close of the dance. The Bishop of Arras, Malfalconnet, and

several of the ladies and gentlemen who had left the tent in no small

number and gone to the scene of the dancing after learning what was

taking place there, had remained after the monarch’s departure. Most

of them joined in the applause which the younger Granvelle eagerly

commenced when the city pipers lowered their instruments.

Barbara heard it, and saw that Bernhard Trainer and other young citizens

of Ratisbon were following the courtiers’ example, but she seemed

scarcely to notice the demonstration.

The doubt whether Charles had merely not waited till the end of the

dance, or had already left the festival, made her forget everything

else. Through the Bishop of Arras she learned that his Majesty had gone

home.

No one, not even the baron and Quijada, had received a message for her.

This fresh humiliation pierced her heart like a knife.

On every similar occasion hitherto he had sent her a few kind words, or,

if Don Luis was the messenger, tender ones.

Yet she was obliged to force herself to smile, in order not to betray

what was passing in her mind. Besides, she could not shake off the Duke

of Saxony like the poor, handsome recruiting officer, Pyramus Kogel.

Fortunately, some of the most prominent Ratisbon citizens now crowded

around Maurice to thank him for the honour which he had done the city.

She availed herself of the favourable opportunity to beg Granvelle, in

a low tone, to keep the duke away from her the next morning until his

departure at noon, and, if possible, now.

“One service for another,” replied the statesman. “I will rid you of the

most desirable admirer in Germany. But, on the day after to-morrow, you

will adorn my modest banquet with the singing of the most gifted artist

in the world.”

“Gladly, unless his Majesty forbids me to do so,” replied Barbara.

A few minutes later she informed her passionate young ducal lover, who

wished to call upon her in her own home that very evening, that it would

be utterly impossible. With an air of the greatest regret, she said that

her little castle was guarded like an endangered citadel; and when the

duke proposed a meeting, he was interrupted by the Bishop of Arras, who

desired to speak to him about “important business.”

In spite of the late hour, the minister, even without the girl’s

request, would have sought an audience with the duke, and to the

ambitious Maurice politics and the important plans being prepared

for immediate execution were of infinitely greater value than a love

adventure, no matter what hours of pleasure it promised to afford.

So Barbara succeeded in taking leave of the duke without giving him

offence.

The marquise was waiting for her with ill-repressed indignation. The

weary old woman had wanted to return home long before, but the command

of the grand chamberlain compelled her to wait for Barbara and accompany

her the short distance to the house.

With an angry glance and a few bitter-sweet words of greeting, the old

dame entered the litter. Barbara preferred to walk beside hers, for

clouds had darkened the sky; it had become oppressively sultry, and she

felt as if she would stifle in the close, swaying box.

Four torch-bearers accompanied the litters. She ordered the knight and

the two lackeys whom Quijada had commissioned to attend her to remain

behind, and also refused the service of the little Maltese, who--oh, how

gladly!--would have acted as a page and carried her train.

As the shipwrecked man on a plank amid the endless surges longs for

land, Barbara longed to get away, far away from the noise of the

festival. Yet she dreaded the solitude which she was approaching, for

she now perceived how foolishly she had acted, and with what sinful

recklessness she had perhaps forfeited the happiness of her life on this

luckless evening.

But need she idly wait for the doom to which she was condemned? He whose

bright eyes could beam on her so radiantly had just wounded her with

angry glances, like a foe or a stern judge, and his indignation had not

been groundless.

What had life to offer her without his love? The wantonly bold venture

had been baffled. Yet no! All was not yet lost!

Suppose she should summon courage to steal back to him and on her knees

repentantly beseech him to forgive her?

But she cherished this desire only a few moments. Then the angry,

wronged heart rebelled against such humiliation. She had not so shame

fully offended the Emperor, but the lover, and it was his place to

entreat her not to withdraw the love which made him happy.

The young girl raised her head with fresh courage. What had happened

more than she had expected?

Because he loved her, he had become jealous, and made her feel his

anger. But if she should now persistently withdraw from him, and let him

realize how deeply he had offended her, she could not fail to win the

game. In spite of all his crowns and kingdoms, he was only a man, and

must not she, who in a few brief hours had forced a Maurice of Saxony

to sue yearningly for her love, succeed by the might of her art and her

beauty in transforming the wrath of the far older man, Charles, into his

former passion?

If the Italian novels with which she was familiar did not lie, not only

jealousy, but apparent indifference on the part of the beloved object,

fanned the heart of man to burst into fresh flames.

It was only necessary to hold her impetuous temper in check, and profit

by the jealousy which had now been aroused in Charles’s mind. Hitherto

she had always obeyed hasty impulses. Why should not she, too, succeed

in accomplishing a well-considered plan? With the torturing emotions

of failure, mortification, desertion, remorse, and yearning for

forgiveness, now blended the hope of yet bringing to a successful

conclusion the hazardous enterprise which she had already given up as

hopeless, and, while walking on, her brain toiled diligently over plans

for the campaign which would compel the great general to return with

twofold devotion the love of which he had deprived her.

So, in the intense darkness, she followed the light which the torches

cast upon the uneven path. At first she had taken up the train of her

dress; now it was sweeping the dusty road.

What did she care for the magnificent robe if she regained Charles’s

love? Of what use would it be if she had lost it, lost it forever?

Before the litters reached the little castle a gust of wind rose,

driving large drops of rain, straw, and withered leaves-Barbara could

not imagine whence they came in the month of May--into her face. She was

obliged to struggle against these harbingers of the coming tempest, and

her heart grew lighter during the conflict. She was not born to endure,

but to contend.

The scene of the festivities emptied rapidly. The duke and Granvelle

drove back to the city in the minister’s carriage. Malfalconnet and

Quijada, in spite of the gathering storm, went home on foot.

“What a festival!” said Don Luis scornfully.

“In former days such things presented a more superb spectacle even here.

But now! No procession, no scarlet save on the cardinals, no golden

cross, no venerable priest’s head on the whole pleasure ground, and,

moreover, neither consecration nor the pious exhortation to remember

Heaven, whence comes the joy in which the crowd is rejoicing.”

“I, too, missed something here,” cried the baron eagerly, “and now I

learn through you what it is.”

“Will not the heretics themselves gradually feel that they are robbing

the pasty of faith of its truffles--what am I saying?--of its salt?

May their dry black bread choke them! The only thing that gave the

unseasoned meal a certain charm was the capitally performed gagliarde.

“Which angered his Majesty more deeply than you imagine,” replied Don

Luis. “The singer’s days are probably numbered. It is a pity! She was

wonderfully successful in subduing the spirits of melancholy.”

“The war, on which we can now depend, will do that equally well, if not

better,” interrupted the baron. “Within a short time I, too, have lost

all admiration for this fair one. Cold-hearted and arrogant. Capable of

the utmost extremes when her hot blood urges her on. Unpopular with

the people to whom she belongs, and, in spite of her bold courage,

surprisingly afraid of the Holy Inquisition. Here, among the heretics,

that gives cause for thought.”

“Enough!” replied Don Luis. “We will let matters take their course. If

the worst comes, I, at least, will not move a finger in her behalf.”

“Nor will I,” said Malfalconnet, and both walked quietly on.

BOOK 2.

CHAPTER I.

Through the storm, which lashed her face with whirling clouds of dust

and drops of rain, Barbara reached the little Prebrunn castle.

The marquise had not yet left her litter. The wind had extinguished two

of the torches. One bearer walked in front of Barbara with his, and the

gale blew the smoking flame aside. But, ere she had reached the gate,

a man who had been concealed behind the old elm by the path stepped

forward to meet her. She started back and, as he called her by name, she

recognised the young Wittenberg theologian, Erasmus Eckhart. Sincerely

indignant, she ordered him to go away at once, but her first words were

interrupted by the shrill voice of the marquise, who had now left her

litter, and with loud shrieks ordered the steward to seize the burglar.

Erasmus, however, trusted to his strength and nimbleness and, instead of

promptly taking flight, entreated Barbara to listen to him a moment. Not

until, far from allowing herself to be softened, she, too, threatened

him, did he attempt to escape, but both litters were in his way, and

when he had successfully passed around them the gardener, suddenly

emerging from the darkness, seized him. But the sturdy young fellow knew

how to defend his liberty, and had already released himself from his

assailant when other servants grasped him.

Above the roar of the storm now rose the shrieks of the marquise, the

shouts of “Stop thief!” from the men, and Erasmus’s protestations that

he was no robber, coupled with an appeal to Jungfrau Blomberg, who knew

him.

Barbara now stated that he was the son of a respectable family, and had

by no means come here to steal the property of others; but the marquise,

though she probably correctly interpreted the handsome young fellow’s

late visit, vehemently insisted upon his arrest. She treated Barbara’s

remonstrance with bitter contempt; and when Cassian, the almoner’s

servant, appeared and declared that he had already caught this rascal

more than once strolling in a suspicious manner near the castle, and

that he himself was here so late only because his beloved bride, in

her mistress’s absence, was afraid of the robber and his companions,

Barbara’s entreaties and commands were disregarded, and Erasmus’s hands

were bound.

By degrees the noise drew most of the inmates of the castle out of

doors, and among them Frau Lerch. Lastly, several halberdiers, who were

coming from the Lindenplatz and had heard the screams in the garden,

appeared, chained the prisoner, and took him to the Prebrunn jail.

But scarcely had Erasmus been led away when the priests of the household

also came out and asked what had happened. In doing this Barbara’s

caution in not calling Erasmus by name proved to have been futile, for

Cassian had recognised him, and told the ecclesiastics what he knew.

The chaplain then asserted that, as the property of the Prince Abbot

of Berchtesgaden, the house and garden were under ecclesiastical

jurisdiction, and committed the further disposal of the burglar’s fate

to the Dominican whom the almoner had placed there. For the present he

might remain in secular custody. Early the following morning he must be

brought before the Spanish Dominicans who had come with the Emperor,

and from whom greater severity might be expected than from the Ratisbon

brotherhood, by whom monastic discipline had been greatly relaxed.

Meanwhile the wind had subsided, and the storm had burst with thunder,

lightning, and torrents of rain. Priests and laymen retreated into

the house, and so did Barbara and the marquise. The latter had exposed

herself to the tempest only long enough to emphasize the necessity of

delivering the heretical night-bird to the Spanish Dominicans very early

the next morning, and to show Barbara that she did not overlook the

significance of the incidents under the lindens. With a disagreeable

blending of tenderness and malice, she congratulated the young girl on

the applause she had received as a dancer, the special favour which she

had enjoyed from the Duke of Saxony, and the arrest of the dangerous

burglar, which would also be a gratification to his Majesty.

With these words the old aristocrat, coughing slightly, tripped up the

stairs; but Barbara, without vouchsafing an answer to this speech, whose

purpose she clearly understood, turned her back upon her and went to her

own room.

She had desired no gift in return when, to save this contemptible

woman’s son and his child, she sacrificed her lover’s precious memento;

but the base reward for the kind deed added a burning sense of pain to

the other sorrows which the day had brought. What a shameful crime was

ingratitude! None could be equally hateful to eternal justice, for--she

now learned it by her own experience--ingratitude repaid kindness with

evil instead of with good, and paralyzed the disappointed benefactor’s

will to perform another generous deed.

When she entered her sleeping-room the courage which she had summoned

during the walk, and the hope to which she had yielded, appeared to be

scattered and blown away as if by a gust of wind. Besides, she could not

conceal from herself that she had drawn the nails from the planks of her

wrecked ship of life with her own hand.

Did it not seem as if she had intentionally done precisely what she

ought most studiously to have left undone? Her sale of the star had been

only an unfortunate act of weakness, but the dance, the luckless dance!

Not once only, several times Charles had stated plainly enough how

unpleasant it was to him even to hear the amusement mentioned. She had

behaved as if she desired to forfeit his favour.

And why, in Heaven’s name, why? To arouse his jealousy?

Fool that she was! This plant took root only in a heart filled with love

And his?

Because she perceived that his love was dying, she had awakened this

fatal passion. Was it not as if she had expected to make a water-lily

blossom in the sands of the desert?

True, still another motive had urged her to this mad act. She knew not

what name to give it, yet it was only too possible that, in spite of her

recent experiences, it might overpower her again on the morrow.

Surprised at herself, she struck her brow with her hand, and when Frau

Lerch, who was just combing her wet hair, perceived it, she sobbed

aloud, exclaiming: “Poor, poor young gentleman, and the Hiltners, who

love him as if he were their own son! Such a terrible misfortune! Old

fool that I am! The first time he asked admittance to show you the

tablature, and you did not want to receive him, I persuaded you to do

so. Then he fared like all the others whose heads you have turned with

your singing. Holy Virgin! If the Hiltners learn that you and I let him

be bound without making any real protest. It will fall heaviest upon me;

you can believe that, for Fran Hiltner and Jungfrau Martina, since the

young girl has gone to dances, have been among my best customers. Now

they will say: Frau Lerch, who used to be a good little woman, left the

young fellow in the lurch when his life was at stake, for they will take

him to the Spanish Dominicans. They belong, to the Holy Inquisition, and

think no more of burning people at the stake than we do of a few days in

prison.”

Here Barbara interrupted her with the remark that Erasmus could be

convicted of no crime, and the Holy Inquisition had no authority in

Ratisbon.

But Frau Lerch knew better. That was all very well during the Emperor’s

absence, but now that his Majesty resided in the city the case was

different. Erasmus had been arrested on ecclesiastical ground, the

chaplain had ordered him to be delivered to the Spaniards early the next

morning and, ere the syndic could interpose, the rope would already be

twisted for him, for with these gentlemen the executioner stood close

beside the judge. Besides, she had heard of a pamphlet against the Pope,

which the young theologian had had published, that had aroused great

indignation among the priesthood. If he fell into the hands of the

Dominicans, he would be lost, as surely as she hoped to be saved. If he

were only in the custody of the city, of course a better result might be

hoped.

Here she stopped with a shriek, dropping the comb, for the thundercloud

was now directly over the city, and a loud peal, following close upon

the flash of lightning, shook the house; but Barbara scarcely heeded the

dazzling glare and the rattling panes.

She had risen with a face as white as death. She knew what severe

sentences could be pronounced by the Council of the Inquisition, and the

thought that the keenest suffering should be inflicted upon the

Hiltners through her, to whom they had showed so much kindness, seemed

unendurable. Besides, what she had just said to herself concerning

ingratitude returned to her mind.

And then, Inquisition and the rack were two ideas which could scarcely

be separated from one another. What might not be extorted from the

accused by the torture! In any case, the almoner’s suspicion would

obtain fresh nourishment, and her lover had told her more than

once--what a special dislike he felt for women who, with their slender

intelligence, undertook to set themselves above the eternal truths of

the Holy Church. And the jealousy which, fool that she was, she had

desired to arouse in her lover, what abundant nourishment it would

derive from the events which had occurred on her return from the

festival!

But even these grave fears were overshadowed by the thought of Dr.

Hiltner’s wife and daughter. With what fair-mindedness the former in the

Convivium had made her cause her own, how touching had been Martina’s

effort to approach her, and how ill that very day she had requited their

loyal affection! Erasmus was as dear as a beloved son to these good

women, and Frau Lerch’s reproach that her intercession for him was but

lukewarm had not been wholly groundless. The next day these friends who,

notwithstanding the difference in their religious belief, had treated

her more kindly than any one in Ratisbon, would hear this and condemn

her. That should not be! She would not suffer them to think of her as

she did of the shameless old woman whose footsteps she still heard over

her head.

She must not remain idly here, and what her impetuous nature so

passionately demanded must be carried into execution, though reason and

the loud uproar of the raging storm opposed it.

Fran Lerch had just finished arranging her hair and handed her her

night-coif, when she started up and, with the obstinate positiveness

characteristic of her, declared that she was going at once to the

Hiltners to inform the syndic of what had happened here. Erasmus was

still in the hands of the town guards, and perhaps it would be

possible for the former to withdraw the prisoner from ecclesiastical

jurisdiction.

Frau Lerch clasped her hands in horror, exclaiming: “Holy Virgin, child!

Have you gone crazy? Go out in this weather? Whoever is not killed by

lightning will drown in the puddles.”

But with that violent peal of thunder the storm had reached its height,

and when the next flash of lightning came the thunder did not follow

until some time after, though the rain continued to beat as heavily

against the panes. Yet even had the tempest continued to rage with full

fury, Barbara would not have been dissuaded from the resolution which

she had once formed.

True, her attempt to persuade Frau Lerch to accompany her remained

futile. Her frail body, the dressmaker protested, was not able to

undertake such a walk through the storm. If she yielded, it would be her

death. It would kill Barbara, also, and this crazy venture would be too

dearly paid for at the cost of two human lives.

Barbara’s angry remark that if she would not run the risk of getting wet

for the sake of compassion, she might on account of the Hiltners’ good

custom, finally made the excited woman burst into piteous crying; yet in

the midst of it she brought Barbara’s dress and old thick cloak and, as

she put them on the girl, exclaimed, “But I tell you, child, you’ll turn

back again when you get halfway there, and all you bring home will be a

bad illness.”

“Whoever can execute the gagliarde to dance herself into misery,”

replied Barbara impatiently, “will not find it difficult to take a walk

through the rain to save some one else from misfortune. The cloak!”

“She will go,” sobbed Frau Lerch. “The servants must still obey you.

At least order the litter. This crazy night pilgrimage can not remain

concealed.”

“Then let people talk about it,” replied Barbara firmly and, after

having the cloak clasped and the hood drawn over her head, she went

out. Frau Lerch, who had the key, opened the door for her amid loud

lamentations and muttered curses; but when the girl had vanished in the

darkness, she turned back, saying fiercely through her set teeth: “Rush

on to ruin, you headstrong creature! If I see aright, the magnificence

here is already tottering. Go and get wet! I’ve made my profit, and the

two unfinished gowns can be added to the account. The Lord is my witness

that I meant well. But will she ever do what sensible people advise?

Always running her head against the wall. Whoever will not hear, must

feel.”

She hastened back into the house as she spoke to escape the pouring

rain, but Barbara paid little heed to the wet, and waded on through the

mire of the road.

The force of the storm was broken, the wind had subsided, distant

flashes of lightning still illumined the northern horizon, and the night

air was stiflingly sultry. No one appeared in the road, and yet some

belated pedestrian might run against her at any moment, for the dense

darkness shrouded even the nearest objects. But she knew the way, and

had determined to follow the Danube and go along the woodlands to the

tanner’s pit, whence the Hiltner house was easily reached. In this way

she could pass around the gate, which otherwise she would have been

obliged to have opened.

But ere gaining the river she was to learn that she had undertaken a

more difficult task than she expected. Her father had never allowed her

to go out after dark, unaccompanied, even in the neighbourhood, and the

terrors of night show their most hideous faces to those who are burdened

by anxious cares. Several times she sank so deep into the mud that her

shoe stuck fast in it, and she was obliged to force it on again with

much difficulty. As she walked on and a strange, noise reached her from

the woodyard on her left, when she constantly imagined that she heard

another step following hers like an audible shadow, when drunken

raftsmen came toward her, hoarsely singing an obscene song, she pressed

against a fence in order not to be seen by the dissolute fellows. But

now a light came wavering toward her, looking like a shining bird flying

slowly, or a hell-hound, with glowing eyes, and at the sight it seemed

to her impossible to wander on all alone. But the mysterious light

proved to be only a lantern in the hand of an old woman who had been

to fetch a doctor, so she summoned up fresh courage, though she told

herself that here near the lumber yards she might easily encounter

raftsmen and guards watching the logs and planks piled on the banks of

the river, fishermen, and sailors. Already she heard the rushing of the

swollen Danube, and horrible tales returned to her memory of hapless

girls who had flung themselves into the waves here to put an end to

lives clouded by disgrace and fear.

Then a shiver ran through her, and she asked herself what her father

would say if he could see her wading alone through the water. Perhaps

the fatigues of the long journey had thrown him upon a sick-bed;

perhaps he had even--at the fear she felt as though her heart would stop

beating--succumbed to them. Then he knew how matters stood with her, the

sin she had committed, and the shame she had brought upon him that she

might enjoy undisturbed a happiness which was already changing into

bitter sorrow. Meanwhile it seemed as if she was gazing into his rugged,

soldierly face, reddish-brown, with rolling eyes, as it looked when

disfigured by anger, and she raised her hands as if to hold him

back; but only for a few minutes, for she perceived that her excited

imagination was terrifying her with a delusion.

Drawing a long breath, she pushed her dank hair back into her hood and

pressed her hand upon her heart. Then she was calm a while, but a

new terror set it throbbing again. Close beside her--this time at

her right--the loud laughter of men’s harsh voices echoed through the

darkness.

Barbara involuntarily stopped, and when she collected her thoughts

and looked around her, her features, distorted by anxiety and terror,

smoothed again, and she instantly knocked with her little clinched

hand upon the door of the hut from whose open windows the laughter had

issued.

It stood close to the river bank, and the tiny dwelling belonged to

the Prior of Berchtesgaden’s fisherman and boatman, who kept the

distinguished prelate’s gondolas and boats in order, and acted as rower

to the occupants of the little Prebrunn castle. She had often met this

man when he brought fish for the kitchen, and he had gone with the boats

in the water excursions which she had sometimes taken with Gombert and

Appenzelder or with Malfalconnet and several pages. She had treated him

kindly, and made him generous gifts.

All was still in the house after her knock, but almost instantly the

deep voice of the fisherman Valentin, who had thrust his bearded face

and red head out of the window, asked who was there.

The answer received an astonished “Can it be!” But as soon as she

informed him that she needed a companion, he shouted something to the

others, put on his fisherman’s cap, stepped to Barbara’s side, and led

the way with a lantern which stood lighted on the table.

The road was so softened that, in spite of the light which fell on the

ground, it was impossible to avoid the pools and muddy places. But

the girl had become accustomed to the wet and the wading. Besides, the

presence of her companion relieved her from the terrors with which the

darkness and the solitude had tortured her. Instead of watching for new

dangers, she listened while Valentin explained how it happened that she

found him still awake. He had helped hang the banners and lamps tinder

the lindens, and when the storm arose he assisted in removing the best

pieces. In return a jug of wine, with some bread and sausages, had been

given to him, and he had just begun to enjoy them with two comrades.

The Hiltner house was soon reached. Nothing had troubled Barbara during

the nocturnal walk since the fisherman had accompanied her.

Her heart was lighter as she rapped with the knocker on the syndic’s

door; but, although she repeated the summons several times, not a sound

was heard in the silent house.

Valentin had seen the Hiltners’ two men-servants with the litters under

the lindens, and Barbara thought that perhaps the maids might have gone

to the scene of the festival to carry headkerchiefs and cloaks to the

ladies before the outbreak of the storm. That the deaf old grandmother

did not hear her was easily understood.

The Hiltners could not have returned, so she must wait.

First she paced impatiently to and fro in the rain, then sat upon a

curbstone which seemed to be protected from the shower by the roof. But

ever and anon a larger stream of water poured down upon her from the

jaws of a hideous monster in which the gutter ended than from the black

clouds, and, dripping wet, she at last leaned against the door, which

was better shielded by the projecting lintel, while the fisherman

inquired about the absent occupants of the house.

Thus minute after minute passed until the first and then the second

quarter of an hour ended. When the third commenced, Barbara thought she

had waited there half the night. The rain began to lessen, it is true,

but the sultry night grew cooler, and a slight chill increased her

discomfort.

Yet she did not move from the spot. Here, in front of the house in which

estimable women had taken her to their hearts with such maternal and

sisterly affection, Barbara had plainly perceived that she, who had

never ceased to respect herself, would forever rob herself of this right

if she did not make every effort in her power to save Erasmus from the

grave peril in which he had become involved on her account. During this

self-inspection she did not conceal from herself that, while singing

his own compositions to him, she had yielded to the unfortunate habit

of promising more with her eyes than she intended to perform. How could

this vain, foolish sport have pleased her after she had yielded herself,

soul and body, to the highest and greatest of men!

Anne Mirl Woller had often been reproved by her mother, in her presence,

for her freedom of manner. But who had ever addressed such a warning

to her? Now she must atone for her heedlessness, like many other things

which her impetuous will demanded and proved stronger than the reason

which forbade it. It was a wonder that Baron Malfalconnet and Maestro

Gombert had not sued more urgently for her favour. If she was honest,

she could not help admitting that her lover--and such a lover!--was

justified in wishing many things in her totally different. But she was

warned now, and henceforth these follies should be over--wholly and

entirely over!

If only he would refrain from wounding her with that irritating

sharpness, which made her rebellious blood boil and clouded her clear

brain! He was indeed the Emperor, to whom reverence was due; but during

the happy hours which tenderly united them he himself desired to be

nothing but the man to whom the heart of the woman he loved belonged.

She must keep herself worthy of him, nothing more, and this toilsome

errand would prevent her from sullying herself with an ugly sin.

During these reflections the chill had become more and more unendurable,

yet she thought far less of the discomfort which it caused her than of

increased danger to Erasmus from the Hiltners’ long absence.

The third quarter of an hour was already drawing to an end when Valentin

came hurrying up and told Barbara that they were on the way. He had

managed to speak to the syndic, and told him who was waiting for him.

A young maid-servant, running rapidly, came first to open the house and

light the lamps. She was followed, quite a distance in advance of the

others, by Dr. Hiltner.

The fisherman’s communication had made him anxious. He, too, had

heard that Barbara was the Emperor’s favourite. Besides, more than one

complaint of her offensive arrogance had reached him. But, for that very

reason, the wise man said to himself, it must be something of importance

that led her to him at this hour and in such weather.

At first he answered her greeting with cool reserve, but when she

explained that she had come, in spite of the storm, because the matter

concerned the weal or woe of a person dear to him, and he saw that

she was dripping wet, he honestly regretted his long delay, and in his

manly, resolute manner requested her to follow him into the house; but

Barbara could not be persuaded to do so.

To give the thunderstorm time to pass and take his wife and daughter

home dry, he had entered a tavern near the lindens and there engaged

in conversation with several friends over some wine. Whenever he urged

returning, the young people--she knew why--objected. But at last they

had started, and Bernhard Trainer had accompanied the Hiltners, in

order to woo Martina on the way. Her parents had seen this coming, and

willingly confided their child’s happiness to him.

The betrothed couple now came up also, and saw with surprise the earnest

zeal with which Martina’s father was discussing something, they knew not

what, with the singer on whose account they had had their first quarrel.

The lover had condemned Barbara’s unprecedented arrogance during the

dance so severely that Martina found it unendurable to listen longer.

Frau Sabina, too, did not know how to interpret Barbara’s presence; but

one thing was certain in her kindly heart--this was no place for such

conversation. How wet the poor girl must be! The wrong which Barbara

had done her child was not taken into consideration under these

circumstances and, with maternal solicitude, she followed her husband’s

example, and earnestly entreated Barbara to change her clothes in her

house and warm herself with a glass of hot black currant wine. But

Barbara could not be induced to do so, and hurriedly explained to the

syndic what he lacked the clew to understand.

In a few minutes she had made him acquainted with everything that it was

necessary for him to know. Dr. Hiltner, turning to his wife, and mean

while looking his future son-in-law steadily in the eye, exclaimed, “We

are all, let me tell you, greatly indebted to this brave girl.”

Frau Sabina’s heart swelled with joy, and to Martina, too, the praise

which her father bestowed on Barbara was a precious gift. The mother

and daughter had always espoused her cause, and now it again proved that

they had done well.

“So I was right, after all,” whispered the young girl to her lover.

“And will prove so often,” he answered gaily. But when, a short time

after, he proposed to Barbara’s warm advocate to accompany the singer

home, Martina preferred to detain him, and invited him to stay in the

house with her a little while longer.

These incidents had occupied only a brief period, and Dr. Hiltner

undertook to escort the young girl himself. To save time, he questioned

her about everything which he still desired to know, but left her before

she turned into the lane leading to the little castle, because he

was aware that she, who belonged to the Emperor’s household, might he

misjudged if she were seen in his company.

Shortly after, he had freed Erasmus from imprisonment and sent him, in

charge of one of the Council’s halberdiers, beyond the gate. He was to

remain concealed outside the city until the syndic recalled him.

The young theologian willingly submitted, after confessing to his

foster-father how strongly love for Barbara had taken possession of him.

This act might arouse strong hostility to the syndic, but he did not

fear it. Moreover, the Emperor had showed at the festival plainly enough

his withdrawal of the good opinion which he had formerly testified upon

many an occasion. This was on account of his religion, and where that

was concerned there was no yielding or dissimulation on either side.

Barbara returned home soothed.

Frau Lerch was waiting for her, and with many tokens of disapproval

undressed her. Yet she carefully dried her feet and rubbed them with her

hands, that she might escape the fever which she saw approaching.

Barbara accepted with quiet gratitude the attention bestowed upon

her, but, though she closed her eyes, the night brought no sleep, for

sometimes she shivered in a chill, sometimes a violent headache tortured

her.

CHAPTER II.

Sleep also deserted the Emperor’s couch. After his return from the

festival he tried to examine several documents which the secretary

Gastelii had laid ready for him on the writing-table, but he could not

succeed. His thoughts constantly reverted to Barbara and her defiant

rebellion against the distinct announcement of his will. Had the Duke

of Saxony, so much his junior and, moreover, a far handsomer and perhaps

more generous prince, won her favour, and therefore did she perhaps

desire to break the bond with him?

Why not?

She was a woman, and a capricious one, too, and of what would not such

a nature be capable? Besides, there was something else. Jamnitzer, the

Nuremberg goldsmith, had intrusted a casket of jewels to Adrian to keep

during his absence. They were intended for the diadems which the Emperor

was to give his two nieces for bridal presents. The principal gems among

them were two rubies and a diamond. On the gold of the old-fashioned

setting were a P and an l, the initial letters of his motto “Plus

ultra.” He had once had it engraved upon the back of the star which he

bestowed upon Barbara. His keen eye and faithful memory could not be

deceived--Jamnitzer’s jewels had been broken from that costly ornament.

From time immemorial it had belonged to the treasures of his family, and

he had already doubted whether it was justifiable to give it away.

Was it conceivable that Barbara had parted with this, his first memento,

sold it, “turned it into money”?--the base words wounded his chivalrous

soul like the blow of a scourge.

She was a passionate, defiant, changeful creature, it is true, yet her

nature was noble, hostile to baseness, and what a wealth of the purest

and deepest feeling echoed in her execution of solemn songs! This

induced him to reject as impossible the suspicion that she could have

stooped to anything so unworthy.

Still, it was not easily banished. A long series of the sorest

disappointments had rendered him distrustful, and he remembered having

asked her several times for the star in vain.

Perhaps it had been stolen from her, and Jamnitzer had obtained it from

the thief himself or from the receiver. This thought partially soothed

him, especially as, if correct, it would be possible for him to recover

the ornament. But he was an economical manager, and to expend thousands

of ducats for such a thing just at this time, when immense sums were

needed for the approaching war, seemed to him more than vexatious.

Besides, the high price which he had paid for the Saxon’s aid rendered

him uneasy. He had ceded two large bishoprics to his Protestant ally,

and this act of liberality, which, it is true, had been approved and

supported by Granvelle, could no longer be undone. Moreover, if he drew

the sword, he must maintain the pretence that it was not done for the

sake of religion, but solely to chastise the insubordinate Protestant

princes, headed by the Elector John Frederick of Saxony and Philip of

Hesse, who had seriously angered him.

In ten days the Reichstag would be opened in Ratisbon and, in spite of

his special invitation, these princes, who had refused to recognise the

Council of Trent, had excused their absence upon trivial pretexts--the

Hessian, who on other occasions, attended by his numberless servants

in green livery, had made three times as great a display as he, the

Emperor, on the pretext that the journey to Ratisbon would be too

expensive.

Maurice now had his imperial word and he the duke’s; but since that

evening Charles thought he had noticed something which lessened his

confidence in the Saxon. It was not only jealousy which showed him

this young, clever, brave, and extremely ambitious prince in a more

unfavourable light than before. He knew men, and thought that he had

perceived in him signs of the most utter selfishness. As Maurice, to

gain two bishoprics, and perhaps later the Elector’s hat, abandoned his

coreligionists, his cousin and his father-in-law, he would also desert

him if his own advantage prompted him to do so. True, such an ally was

useful for many things, but he could not be trusted implicitly a single

hour.

Maurice certainly had not remained ignorant of Barbara’s relation to

him, the Emperor, and yet, in the sovereign’s very presence, he had

courted her favour with such defiant boldness that Charles struck the

writing-table with his fist as he thought of his manner to the singer.

Would Maurice impose greater moderation upon himself in political

affairs?

Yet perhaps he judged the Saxon too severely, and made him suffer for

another’s sin. The man’s conduct is governed by the woman’s, and he had

seen how Barbara, as it were, gave Maurice the right to sue thus boldly

for her favour.

Was it conceivable that she loved him, after having wounded him, as if

intentionally, by acts which she knew were detestable to him? If her

heart was still his, how could she have so inconsiderately favoured in

his presence another, younger man?

Angrily excited by the question, he rose from the writing-table. But ere

he went to rest he thought of his hapless mother, whose birthday at this

hour, beyond midnight, was now over, and, kneeling before the priedieu

in his bedroom, he fervently commended her to the mercy of Heaven. This

woman had loved her husband so fondly that it was long ere she could

resolve to part from his corpse, yet she was the heiress of the

mightiest sovereigns; and what was this Ratisbon girl whom he honoured

with his affection?

And yet!

While her lips were still glowing from his kisses, she had carried on

a reckless game with another, and was now robbing him of the repose of

mind which he so urgently, needed.

And the mother of the woman whose birthday had just passed, the proud

Queen Isabella, the conqueror of the Moors--what would she have said had

she been condemned to see her grandson, the heir of so great an empire,

ensnared by such bonds?

He had proved, since he wielded the sceptre, that he did not lack

strength of will, and he must show it again.

He reminded himself indignantly that he was not only the ruler of many

nations, but the head of perhaps the most illustrious family on earth.

He thought of his royal brothers and sisters, his haughty son Philip,

his daughters, nephews, and nieces; and while pouring forth his soul

in fervent prayer for his unfortunate mother, with her disordered

intellect, he also besought the Redeemer to free him from the evil of

this love. Three words from his lips would have sufficed to rid him of

Barbara forever, but--he felt it--that would not end the matter. He must

also learn to forget her, and for that he needed the aid of the higher

powers. He had once more yielded to worldly pleasure. The kiss of her

beautiful soft lips had been sweet, the melody of her voice still more

blissful. It had given him hours of rapture; but were these joys

worth the long repentance which was already beginning? It was wise to

sacrifice the transitory pleasures of earth to loftier purposes. One

thing alone promised permanent duration even here--what he was achieving

for the future greatness of his own name and that of his race. For them

he was now going to war, and, by fighting against the heretics, the foes

of God, he entered the strife, in a sense, as the instrument of Heaven.

Thus, not only his duty as a sovereign, but care for his eternal

salvation, compelled him to cast aside everything which might jeopardize

the triumph of his good, nay, sacred cause; and what could imperil it

more seriously than this late passion, which to-day had rendered it

impossible to do his duty?

Firmly resolved to resign Barbara before his brother Ferdinand reached

Ratisbon with his family, he rose from the priedieu and sought his

couch. But sleep fled from the anxious ruler; besides, the pain of the

gout became more severe.

After rising early, he went limping to mass, breakfasted, and began his

work.

Many charts and plans had been placed on the writing-table for him, and

beside them he found a letter from Granvelle, in which he stated his

views concerning the alliance with Duke Maurice, and what advantage

might be derived from it. Both as a whole and in detail Charles approved

them, and gladly left to the minister the final negotiations with the

duke, who intended to leave Ratisbon at noon. If he briefly ratified the

terms which had been arranged with Granvelle, and gave Maurice his hand

in farewell, he thought he would have satisfied amply the claims of the

covetous man, of whose aid, however, he stood in need.

After the thunderstorm the weather had grown cloudy and cool. Perhaps

the change had caused his increased suffering and unhappy mood. But the

true reason was doubtless the resolution formed the night before, and

which now by day seemed more difficult to execute than he had thought

at the priedieu. He was still resolved to keep it, but earthly life

appeared less short, and he could not conceal from himself that, without

Barbara’s sunny cheerfulness, bewitching tenderness, and, alas! without

her singing, his future existence would lack its greatest charm. His

life would be like this gloomy day. Put he would not relinquish what he

had once firmly determined and proved to himself by reasoning to be the

correct course.

He could not succeed in burying himself in charts and plans as usual

and, while imagining how life could be endured without the woman he

loved, he pushed the papers aside.

In days like these, when the old ache again attacked him, Barbara and

her singing had brightened the dreary gloom and lessened the pain, or

she had caressed and sung it entirely away. He seemed to himself like

a surly patient who throws aside the helpful medicine because it once

tasted badly to him and was an annoyance to others. Yet no. It contained

poison also, so it was wise to put it away. But had not Dr. Mathys

told him yesterday that the strongest remedial power was concealed in

poisons, and that they were the most effective medicines? Ought he

not to examine once more the reasons which had led him to this last

resolution? He bowed his head with an irresolution foreign to his

nature, and when his greyhound touched his aching foot he pushed the

animal angrily away.

The confessor De Soto found him in this mood at his first visit.

Ere he crossed the threshold he saw that Charles was suffering and felt

troubled by some important matter, and soon learned what he desired to

know. But if Charles expected the Dominican to greet his decision with

grateful joy, he was mistaken, for De Soto had long since relinquished

the suspicion which had prejudiced him against Barbara and, on the

contrary, with the Bishop of Arras, had reached the certainty that the

love which united the monarch to the singer would benefit him.

Both knew the danger which threatened the sovereign from his tendency to

melancholy, and now that he saw his efforts to urge the Emperor to a war

with the Smalcalds crowned with success, he wished to keep alive in him

the joyousness which Barbara, and she alone, had aroused and maintained.

So he used the convincing eloquence characteristic of him to shake the

monarch’s resolve, and lead him back to the woman he loved.

The Church made no objection to this bond of free love formed by a

sovereign whom grave political considerations withheld from a second

marriage. If his Majesty’s affection diminished the success of his work,

the separation from so dear a being, who afforded him so much pleasure,

would do this to a far greater degree. That Barbara had allowed the bold

Saxon too much liberty on the dancing ground he did not deny, but took

advantage of the opportunity to point out the unscrupulousness which

characterized Maurice, like all heretics. As for Barbara, the warm blood

and fresh love of pleasure of youth, qualities which to many were her

special charm, had led her into the error of the luckless dance. But the

Emperor, who until then had listened to De Soto’ here interrupted him to

confide the unfortunate suspicion which had been aroused in him the day

before.

The mention of this matter, however, was very opportune to the almoner,

for he could easily turn it to the advantage of the suspected girl. The

day before yesterday she had confessed to him the fate of the valuable

star, and begged him, if her imprudent deed of charity should be

discovered, to relieve her of the painful task of explaining to Charles

how she had been induced to sell a memento so dear to her. Thereupon the

confessor himself had ascertained from the marquise and the goldsmith

Jamnitzer that Barbara had told him the whole truth.

So in his eyes, and probably in those of a higher power, this apparently

ignoble act would redound no little to the credit of the girl’s heart.

Charles listened to this explanation with a silent shrug of the

shoulders. Such a deed could scarcely be otherwise regarded by the

priest, but Barbara’s disregard of his first gift offended him far more

than the excellent disposition evinced by the hasty act pleased him. She

had flung the first tangible token of his love into the insatiable

jaws of a worthless profligate, like a copper coin thrown as alms to a

beggar. It grieved the soul of the economical manager and lover of rare

works of art to have this ancient and also very valuable family heirloom

broken to pieces. Malfalconnet would not fail to utter some biting jest

when he heard that Charles must now, as it were, purchase this costly

ornament of himself. He would have forgiven Barbara everything else more

easily than this mad casting away of a really royal gift.

Expressing his indignation to the almoner without reserve, he closed the

interview with him. When Charles was again alone he tried to rise, in

order, while pacing up and down the room, to examine his resolution once

more. But his aching foot prevented this plan and, groaning aloud, he

sank back into his arm-chair.

His heart had not been so sore for a long time, and it was Barbara’s

fault. Yet he longed for her. If she had laid her delicate white hand

upon his brow, he said to himself, or had he been permitted to listen to

even one of her deeply felt religious songs, it would have cheered

his soul and even alleviated his physical suffering. Several times he

stretched his hand toward the bell to send for her; but she had offended

him so deeply that he must at least let her feel how gravely she had

erred, and that the lion could not be irritated unpunished, so he

conquered himself and remained alone. The sense of offended majesty

strengthened his power of resisting the longing for her.

Indignant with himself, he again drew the maps toward him. But like

a cloth fluttering up and down between a picture and the beholder,

memories of Barbara forced themselves between him and the plans over

which he was bending.

This could not continue!

Perhaps, after all, her singing was the only thing which could restore

his lost composure. He longed for it even more ardently than for her

face. If he sent for her, he could show her by his manner what fruit her

transgressions had borne. The rest would follow as a matter of course.

Now every fibre of his being yearned for the melody of her voice.

Obeying a hasty resolution, he rang the bell and ordered Adrian to call

Quijada and command Barbara to sing in the Golden Cross that afternoon.

After the valet had replaced his aching foot in the right position, Don

Luis appeared. Without any further comment the Emperor informed him

that he had determined to sever the bond of love which united him to the

singer.

While speaking, he looked his friend sharply in the face, and when he

saw, by his silent bow, that his decision called forth no deeper emotion

in him, he carelessly added that, nevertheless, he intended to hear her

sing that day, and perhaps many times more.

Perceiving a significant smile upon the lips of the faithful follower,

and recognising the peril contained in the last resolve, he shook his

finger at Quijada, saying: “As if even the inmost recesses of your soul

were concealed from me! You are asking yourself, Why does Charles deny

me leave to visit Villagarcia, and thereby cruelly prevent my being

happy with my dear, beautiful young wife, after so long a separation,

if he considers himself strong enough to turn his back, without further

ceremony, upon the woman he loves, after seeing and hearing her again?”

“Your Majesty has read correctly,” replied Don Luis, “yet my wish for

a brief stay with Doha Magdalena de Ulloa is very different from your

Majesty’s desire.”

“How?” demanded Charles in a sharp tone of inquiry. “Is my strength of

will, in your opinion, so far inferior to yours?”

“Your Majesty can scarcely deem me capable of so presumptuous an error,”

replied Quijada. “But your Majesty is Charles V, who has no superior

save our Lord in heaven. I, on the contrary, am only a Castilian

nobleman, and as such prize my honour as my highest treasure; but, above

all other things, even above the lady of my heart, stands the King.”

“I might know that,” cried the Emperor, holding out his hand to his

friend. “Yet I refused you the leave of absence, you faithful fellow.

The world calls this selfishness. But since it still needs me, it ought

in justice to excuse me, for never have I needed you so much as during

these decisive weeks, whether war is declared--and it will come to

that--or not. Think how many other things are also impending! Besides,

my foot aches, and my heart, this poor heart, bears a wound which a

friend’s careful hand will soothe. So you understand, Luis, that the

much-tormented Charles can not do without you just now.”

Quijada, with sincere emotion, bent over the monarch’s hand and kissed

it tenderly, but the Emperor, for the first time, hastily stroked his

bearded cheek, and said in an agitated tone, “We know each other.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” cried the Spaniard. “In the first place, I will

not again annoy my master with the request for a leave of absence. Dona

Magdalena must try how she can accommodate herself to widowhood while

she has a living husband, if the Holy Virgin will only permit me to

offer your Majesty what you expect from me.”

“I will answer for that,” the Emperor was saying, when Adrian

interrupted him.

The messenger had returned from Prebrunn with the news that the singer

had taken cold the day before, and could not leave the house.

Charles angrily exclaimed that he knew what such illness meant, and his

under lip protruded so far that it was easy to perceive how deeply this

fresh proof of Barbara’s defiance and vanity incensed him.

But when the chamberlain said that the singer had been attacked by a

violent fever, Charles changed colour, and asked quickly in a tone of

sincere anxiety: “And Dr. Mathys? Has he seen her? No? Then he must

go to her at once, and I shall expect tidings as soon as he returns.

Perhaps the fever was seething in her blood yesterday.”

He had no time to make any further remarks about the sufferer, for one

visitor followed another.

Shortly before noon the Bishop of Arras ushered in Duke Maurice, who

wished to take leave of him.

Granvelle, in a businesslike manner, summed up the result of the

negotiations, and Charles made no objection; but after he had said

farewell to the Saxon prince, he remarked, with a smile which was

difficult to interpret: “One thing more, my dear Prince. The beautiful

singer has suffered from the gagliarde, which she had the honour

of dancing with you; she is lying ill of a fever. We will, however,

scarcely regard it as an evil omen for the agreements which we concluded

on the same day. With our custom of keeping our hands away from

everything which our friendly ally claims as his right, our alliance,

please God, will not fail to have good success.”

A faint flush crimsoned the intelligent face of the Saxon duke, and an

answer as full of innuendo as the Emperor’s address was already hovering

on his lips, when the chief equerry’s entrance gave him power to

restrain it.

Count Lanoi announced that his Highness’s travelling escort was ready,

and the Emperor, with an air of paternal affection, bade the younger

sovereign farewell.

As soon as the door had closed behind Maurice, Charles, turning to

Granvelle, remarked, “The Saxon cousin returned our clasp of the hand

some what coldly, but the means of rendering it warmer are ready.”

“The Elector’s hat,” replied the Bishop of Arras. “I hope it will

prevent him from making our heads hot, as the Germans say, instead of

his own.”

“If only our brains keep cool,” replied the Emperor. “It is needful in

dealing with this young man.”

“He knows his Machiavelli,” added the statesman, “but I think the

Florentine did not write wholly in vain for us also.”

“Scarcely,” observed the Emperor, smiling, and then rang the little bell

to have his valet summon Dr. Mathys.

The leech had returned from his visit to Barbara, and feared that

the burning fever from which she was suffering might indicate the

commencement of inflammation of the lungs.

Charles started up and expressed the desire to be conveyed at once in

the litter to Prebrunn; but the physician declared that his Majesty’s

visit would as certainly harm the feverish girl as going out in such

weather would increase the gout in his royal master’s foot.

The monarch shrugged his shoulders, and seized the despatches and

letters which had arrived. The persons about him suffered severely from

his detestable mood, but the dull weather of this gloomy day appeared

also to have a bad effect upon the confessor De Soto, for his lofty brow

was scarcely less clouded than the sky. He did not allude to Barbara by

a single word, yet she was the cause of his depression.

After his conversation with the sovereign he had retired to his private

room, to devote himself to the philological studies which he pursued

during the greater portion of the day with equal zeal and success.

But he had scarcely begun to be absorbed in the new copy of the best

manuscript of Apuleius, which had readied him from Florence, and make

notes in the first Roman printed work of this author, when Cassian

interrupted him.