He had missed the servant in the morning. Now the fellow, always so

punctual when he had not gazed too deeply into the wine-cup, stood

before him in a singular plight, for he was completely drenched, and a

disagreeable odour of liquor exhaled from him. The flaxen hair, which

bristled around his head and hung over his broad, ugly face, gave him so

unkempt and imbecile an appearance that it was repulsive to the almoner,

and he harshly asked where he had been loitering.

But Cassian, confident that his master’s indignation would soon change

to approval and praise, rapidly began to relate what had occurred

outside the little castle at Prebrunn when the festival under the

lindens was over.

After helping to place the Wittenberg theologian in custody, he had

followed Barbara at some distance during her nocturnal walk. While she

waited in front of Dr. Hiltner’s house and talked with the members of

the syndic’s family after their return, he had remained concealed in the

shadow of a neighbouring dwelling, and did not move until the doctor had

gone away with the singer. He cautiously glided behind them as far as

the garden, witnessed the syndic’s cordial farewell to his companion,

and dogged the former to the Prebrunn jail. Here he had again been

obliged to wait patiently a long while before the doctor came out into

the open air with the prisoner. The rope had been removed from Erasmus’s

hands, and Cassian had remained at his heels until he stopped in the

village of Kager, on the Nuremberg road. The young man had taken a

lunch in the tavern there; the money for it was given him by the syndic.

Cassian had seen the gold pieces which had been placed in Erasmus’s

hand, to pay his travelling expenses, glitter in the rosy light of dawn.

In reply to the almoner’s question whether he remembered any portion

of the conversation between the syndic and the singer, Cassian admitted

that he had been obliged to keep too far away from them to hear it, but

Dr. Hiltner’s manner to the girl had been very friendly, especially when

he took leave of her.

The anything but grateful manner with which the almoner received this

story was a great disappointment to the overzealous servant; nay, he

secretly permitted himself to doubt his master’s wisdom and energy when

the latter remarked that the arrest of a man who had merely entered a

stranger’s garden was entirely unjustifiable, and that he was aware of

the singer’s acquaintanceship with the Hiltners.

With these words he motioned Cassian to the door.

When the prelate was again alone he gazed thoughtfully into vacancy. He

understood human beings sufficiently well to know that Barbara had not

deceived him in her confession. In spite of the nocturnal walk with the

head of the Ratisbon heretics, she was faithful to the Catholic Church.

Erasmus’s visit at night alone gave him cause for reflection, and

suggested the doubt whether he might not have interceded too warmly for

this peculiar creature and her excitable artist nature.

CHAPTER III.

Silence pervaded the little castle in Prebrunn; nay, there were days

when a thick layer of straw in the road showed that within the house lay

some one seriously ill, who must be guarded from every sound.

In Ratisbon and the Golden Cross, on the contrary, the noise and bustle

constantly increased. On the twenty-eighth of May, King Ferdinand

arrived with his family to visit his brother Charles. The Reichstag

would be opened on the fifth of June, and attracted to the Danube many

princes and nobles, but neither the Elector John of Saxony nor the

Landgrave Philip of Hesse, the heads of the Smalcald league. King

Ferdinand’s two daughters were to be married the first of July, and

many a distinguished guest came to Ratisbon in June. Besides, several

soldiers began to appear.

The Emperor Charles’s hours were filled to the brim with work and social

obligations. The twinges of the gout had not wholly disappeared, but

remained bearable.

The quiet good-breeding of the two young archduchesses pleased the

Emperor, and their young brother Maximilian’s active mind and gay,

chivalrous nature delighted him, though many a trait made him, as well

as the confessor, doubt whether he did not incline more toward the

evangelical doctrine than beseemed a son of his illustrious race. But

Charles himself, in his youth, had not been a stranger to such leanings.

If Maximilian was intrusted with the reins of government, he would

perceive in what close and effective union stood the Church and the

state. Far from rousing his opposition by reproaches, the shrewd uncle

won his affection and merely sowed in his mind, by apt remarks, the

seeds which in due time would grow and bear their fruit.

The Austrians watched with sincere admiration the actually exhausting

industry of the illustrious head of their house, for he allowed himself

only a few hours’ sleep, and when Granvelle had worked with him until

he was wearied, he buried himself, either alone or with some officers

of high rank, in charts of the seat of war, in making calculations,

arranging the levying of recruits and military movements, and yet

did not withdraw from the society of his Viennese relatives and other

distinguished guests.

Still, he did not forget Barbara. The leech was daily expected to give

a report of her health, and when, during the middle of June, Dr. Mathys

expressed doubts of her recovery, it rendered him so anxious that his

relatives noticed it, and attributed it to the momentous declaration of

war which was on the eve of being made.

When the sufferer at last began to recover, his selfishness was

satisfied with the course of events. True, he thought of the late

springtime of love which he had enjoyed as an exquisite gift of Fortune,

and when he remembered many a tender interview with Barbara a bright

smile flitted over his grave countenance. But, on the whole, he was glad

that this love affair had come to so honourable an end. The last few

weeks had claimed his entire time and strength so rigidly and urgently

that he would have been compelled to refuse Barbara’s demands upon his

love or neglect serious duties.

Besides, a meeting between Barbara and his nephew and young nieces could

scarcely have been avoided, and this would have cast a shadow upon the

unbounded reverence and admiration paid him by the wholly inexperienced,

childlike young archduchesses, which afforded him sincere pleasure. The

confessor had taken care to bring this vividly before his mind. While

speaking of Barbara with sympathizing compassion, he represented her

illness as a fresh token of the divine favour which Heaven so often

showed to the Emperor Charles, and laid special stress upon the

disadvantages which the longer duration of this love affair--though in

itself, pardonable, nay, even beneficial--would have entailed.

Queen Mary’s boy choir was to remain in Ratisbon some time longer,

and whenever the monarch attended their performances--which was almost

daily-the longing for Barbara awoke with fresh strength. Even in the

midst of the most arduous labour he considered the question how it might

be possible to keep her near him--not, it is true, as his favourite, but

as a singer, and his inventive brain hit upon a successful expedient.

By raising her father to a higher rank, he might probably have had her

received by his sister Mary among her ladies in waiting, but then there

would always have been an unwelcome temptation existing. If, on the

other hand, Barbara would decide to take the veil, an arrangement could

easily be made for him to hear her often, and her singing might then

marvellously beautify the old age, so full of suffering and destitute of

pleasure, that awaited him. He realized more and more distinctly that

it was less her rare beauty than the spell of her voice and of her art

which had constrained him to this late passion.

The idea that she would refuse to accept the fate to which he had

condemned her was incomprehensible to his sense of power, and therefore

did not occur to his mind.

Yet, especially when he was bearing pain, he did not find it difficult

to silence even this wish for the future, for then memories of the last

deeply clouded hours of their love bond forced themselves upon him.

He saw her swinging like a Bacchante in the dance with the young Saxon

duke; the star which had been thrown away appeared before his eyes, and

his irritated soul commanded him never to see her again.

But the suffering of a person whom we have once loved possesses a

reconciling power, and he who usually forgot no insult, even after the

lapse of years, was again disposed to forgive her, and reverted to the

wish to continue to enjoy her singing.

When, before their wedding day, he gave his nieces the diadems which

Jammtzer had made for them, his resentment concerning the ornament

sold by Barbara again awoke. He could no longer punish her for this

“loveless” deed, as he called it, but he made the marquise feel severely

enough his indignation for her abuse of the young girl’s inexperience,

for, without granting her a farewell audience, he sent her back to

Brussels, with letters to Queen Mary expressing his displeasure. Instead

of her skilful maid Alphonsine, a clumsy Swabian girl accompanied

her--the former had married Cassian.

Barbara heard nothing of all these things; her recovery was slow, and

every source of anxiety was kept from her.

She had never been ill before, and to be still at a time when every

instinct urged her to battle for her life happiness and her love, to

prove the power of her beauty and her art, put her slender stock of

patience to the severest test.

During the first few days she was perfectly conscious, and watched with

keen suspense what was passing around her. It made her happy to find

that Charles sent his own physician to her but, on the other hand, she

was deeply and painfully agitated by his failure to grant the entreaty

which she sent by Dr. Mathys to let her see his face, even if only for a

moment.

Gombert and Appenzelder, Massi, the Wollers from the Ark, Dr. Hiltner’s

wife and daughter, the boy singer Hannibal, and many gentlemen of

the court-nay, even the Bishop of Arras--came to inquire for her, and

Barbara had strictly enjoined Frau Lerch to tell her everything that

concerned her; for every token of sympathy filled the place, as it were,

of the applause to which she was accustomed.

When, on the second day, she heard that old Ursula had been there to ask

about her for Wolf, who was now convalescing, she passionately insisted

upon seeing her, but, obedient to the physician’s orders, Frau Lerch

would not admit her. Then Barbara flew into such a rage that the foolish

woman forgot to take the fever into account, and determined to return

home. Many motives drew her there, but especially her business; day and

night her mind was haunted by the garments which, just at this time,

before the commencement of the Reichstag, other dressmakers were

fashioning for her aristocratic customers.

A certain feeling of shame had restrained her from leaving Barbara

directly after the beginning of her illness. Besides, delay had been

advisable, because the appearance of the Emperor’s physician proved that

the monarch’s love was not wholly dead. But Barbara’s outbreak now came

at an opportune time, for yesterday, by the leech’s suggestion, and with

the express approval of the Emperor, one of the Dominican nuns, Sister

Hyacinthe, had come from the Convent of the Holy Cross and, with quiet

dignity, assumed her office of nurse beside her charge’s sick-bed. This

forced Fran Lerch into a position which did not suit her, and as, soon

after Barbara’s outbreak, Dr. Mathys sternly ordered her to adopt a

more quiet and modest bearing, she declared that she would not bear such

insult and abuse, hastily packed her property, and returned to the Grieb

with a much larger amount of luggage than she had brought with her.

Sister Hyacinthe now ruled alone in the sickroom, and the calm face

of the nun, whose cap concealed hair already turning gray, exerted as

soothing an influence upon the patient as her low, pleasant voice. She

was the daughter of a knightly race, and had taken the veil from a deep

inward vocation, as one of the elect who, in following Christ, forget

themselves, in order to dedicate to her suffering neighbours all her

strength and the great love which filled her heart. They were her world,

and her sole pleasure was to satisfy the compassionate impulse in her

own breast by severe toil, by tender solicitude, by night watching, and

by exertions often continued to actual suffering. Death, into whose face

she had looked beside so many sickbeds, was to her a kind friend who

held the key of the eternal home where the Divine Bridegroom awaited

her.

The events occurring in the world, whether peace reigned or the nations

were at war with one another, affected her only so far as they were

connected with her patient. Her thoughts and acts, all her love and

solicitude, referred solely to the invalid in her care.

The departure of Frau Lerch was a relief to her mind, and it seemed an

enigma that Barbara, whose beauty increased her interest, and whom

the physician had extolled as a famous singer, could have given her

confidence, in her days of health, to this woman.

Sister Hyacinthe’s appearance beside her couch had at first perplexed

Barbara, because she had not asked for her; but the mere circumstance

that her lover had sent her rendered it easy to treat the nun kindly,

and the tireless, experienced, and invariably cheerful nurse soon became

indispensable.

On the whole, both the leech and Sister Hyacinthe could call Barbara a

docile patient, and she often subjected herself to a restraint irksome

to her vivacious temperament, because she felt how much gratitude she

owed to both.

Not until the fever reached its height did her turbulent nature assert

its full power, and the experienced disciple of the art of healing had

seen few invalids rave more wildly.

The delusions that tortured her were by no means varied, for all

revolved about the person of her imperial lover and her art. But under

the most careful nursing her strong constitution resisted even the most

violent attacks of the fever, and when June was drawing toward an end

all danger seemed over.

Dr. Mathys had already permitted her to sit out of doors, and informed

the Emperor that there was no further occasion for fear.

The monarch expressed his gratification but, instead of asking more

particularly about the progress of her convalescence, he hastily turned

the conversation to his own health.

Dr. Mathys regretted this for the sake of the beautiful neglected

creature, who had won his sympathy, but it did not surprise him, for

duty after duty now filled every hour of Charles’s day. Besides, on the

day after to-morrow, the fourth of July, the marriages of his two

nieces were to take place, and he himself was to accompany the bridal

procession and attend the wedding. On the fifth the Reichstag would be

opened, and the Duke of Alba, with several experienced colonels, had

arrived as harbingers of the approaching war. Where this stern and

tried general appeared, thoughts of war began to stir, and already men

equipped with helmets and armour began to be seen in unusual numbers in

all the streets and squares of Ratisbon.

The Emperor’s room, too, had an altered aspect, for, instead of a few

letters and despatches, his writing-table was now covered not only with

maps and plans, but lists and tables referring to the condition of his

army.

What could the health of a half-convalescent girl now be to the man to

whom even his most trusted friend would no longer have dared to mention

her as his favourite?

Of course, Dr. Mathys told Barbara nothing about the Emperor’s lack of

interest, for any strong mental excitement might still be injurious to

her. Besides, he was a reserved man, who said little more to Barbara

than was necessary. Toward the Emperor Charles he imposed a certain

restraint upon himself; but the royal adept in reading human nature knew

that in him he possessed one of the most loyal servants, and gave him

his entire confidence. For his sake alone this wealthy scholar devoted

himself to the laborious profession which so often kept him from library

and laboratory. Although his smooth, brown hair had turned gray

long ago, he had never married, for he had decided in the Emperor’s

favour--this Charles knew also--whenever the choice presented itself to

follow his royal patient during his journeys and expeditions or to find

rest and comfort in a home of his own.

The calm, kindly manner of this far-famed physician very soon gained a

great influence over the vivacious Barbara. Since she had felt sure of

his good will, she had willingly obeyed him. Though he was often obliged

to shake his finger at her and tell her how much she herself could

contribute toward regaining freedom of motion and the use of her voice,

she really did nothing which he could seriously censure, and thus her

recovery progressed in the most favourable manner until the wedding day

was close at hand.

She had already been permitted to receive visits from old acquaintances

and, without saying much herself, listen to the news they brought. The

little Maltese, Hannibal, had also appeared again, and the lively boy

told her many things which Gombert and Appenzelder had not mentioned.

The morning of the day before the princesses’ marriage he informed her,

among other things, that the bridal procession would march the following

morning. It was to start from the cathedral square and go to Prebrunn,

where it would turn back and disband in front of the Town Hall. All the

distinguished noblemen and ladies who had come to Ratisbon to attend the

wedding and the Reichstag would show themselves to the populace on this

occasion, and it was even said that the Emperor intended to lead the

train with his royal brother. It must pass by the garden; but the road

could scarcely be seen from the little castle--the lindens, beeches, and

elms were too tall and their foliage was too thick to permit it.

This news destroyed Barbara’s composure. Though she had slept well

during the past few nights, on this one slumber deserted her. She could

not help thinking constantly of the possibility that the Emperor might

be present in the procession, and to see her lover again was the goal of

her longing.

Even in the morning, while the physician permitted her to remain in the

open air because the clay was hot and still, the bridal procession was

continually in her thoughts. Yet she did not utter a word in allusion to

it.

At the noon meal she ate so little that Sister Hyacinthe noticed it, and

anxiously asked if she felt worse; but Barbara reassured her and, after

a short rest in the house, she asked to be taken out again under the

lindens where she had reclined in an armchair that morning.

Scarcely had she seated herself when all the bells in the city began

to ring, and the heavy ordnance and howitzers shook the air with their

thunder.

What a festal alarum!

How vividly it reminded her of the brilliant exhibitions and festivities

which she had formerly attended!

She listened breathlessly to the sounds from the city, and now a distant

blare of trumpets drowned the dull roar of the ordnance and the sharp

rattle of the culverins.

The confused blending of many human voices reached her from beyond the

garden wall.

The road must be full of people. Now single shrill trumpet notes echoed

from afar amid the trombones and the dull roll of the drums, the noise

increasing every moment. From a large, old beech tree close to the

wall, into which a dozen lads had climbed, she already saw handkerchiefs

waving and heard the shouts of clear, boyish voices.

Sister Hyacinthe had just gone into the house, and like an illumination

the thought darted through Barbara’s mind that the road could be seen

from the little summer house which the reverend owner of the castle

called his “frigidarium,” because it was cool even during the warmest

summer day.

It was a small, towerlike building close to the garden wall, whose

single inner room was designed to imitate a rock cave. The walls were

covered with tufa and stalagmites, shells, mountain crystals, and

corals, and from the lofty ceiling hung large stalactites. From one of

the walls a fountain plashed into a large shell garlanded with green

aquatic plants and tenanted by several goldfish and frogs.

The single open window resembled a cleft in the rocks, and looked out

upon the road. Blocks of stone, flung one upon another without regard to

order, formed steps from which to look out of doors.

These stairs afforded a view of the road to the city. Barbara had often

used them when watching in the dusk of evening for her lover’s litter

or, at a still later hour, for the torch-bearers who preceded it.

She could already walk firmly enough to mount the few rough steps which

led to the opening in the rocks and, obeying the tameless yearning of

her heart, she rose from the arm-chair and walked as rapidly as her

feeble strength permitted toward the frigidarium.

It was more difficult to traverse the path, illumined by the hot July

sun, than she had expected; but the pealing of the bells and the roar

of the cannon continued, and now it was drowned by the fanfare of the

trumpets and the shouts of the people.

All this thundering, ringing, clashing, chiming, and cheering was

a greeting to him for the sight of whom her whole being so ardently

longed; and when, halfway down the path, she felt the need of resting on

a bench under a weeping ash, she did not obey it, but forced herself to

totter on.

Drops of perspiration covered her forehead when she entered the

frigidarium, but there the most delicious coolness greeted her. Here,

too, however, she could allow herself no rest, for the boys in the top

of the beech, and some neighbouring trees, were already shouting their

clear voices hoarse and waving caps and branches.

With trembling knees she forced herself to climb one after another of

the blocks that formed the staircase. When a slight faintness attacked

her, a stalactite afforded her support, and it passed as quickly as it

came. Now she had reached her goal. The rock on which she stood gave her

feet sufficient support, as it had done many times before.

Barbara needed a few minutes in this wonderfully cool atmosphere to

recover complete self-control. Only the wild pulsation of her heart

still caused a painful feeling; but if she was permitted to see the

object of her love once more, the world might go to ruin and she with

it.

Now she gazed from the lofty window over the open country.

She had come just at the right time. Imperial halberdiers and horse

guards, galloping up and down, kept the centre of the road free. On the

opposite side of the highway which she overlooked was a dense, countless

multitude of citizens, peasants, soldiers, monks, women, and children,

who with difficulty resisted the pressure of those who stood behind

them, shoulder to shoulder, head to head. Barbara from her lofty station

saw hats, barets, caps, helmets, women’s caps and coifs, fair and

red hair on uncovered heads and, in the centre of many, the priestly

tonsure.

Then a column of dust advanced along the road from which the fanfare

resounded like the scream of the hawk from the gray fog. A few minutes

later, the cloud vanished; but the shouts of the multitude increased

to loud cheers when the heralds who rode at the head of the procession

appeared and raised their long, glittering trumpets to their lips.

Behind them, on spirited stallions, rode the wedding marshals, members

of royal families, in superb costumes with bouquets of flowers on their

shoulders.

Now the tumult died away for a few minutes, and Barbara felt as though

her heart stood still, for the two stately men on splendid chargers

who now, after a considerable interval, followed them, were the royal

brothers, the Emperor Charles and King Ferdinand.

The man for whom Barbara’s soul longed, as well as her eyes, rode on the

side toward her.

He was still half concealed by dust, but it could be no one else, for

now the outburst of enthusiasm, joy, and reverence from the populace

reached its climax. It seemed as though the very trees by the wayside

joined in the limitless jubilation. The greatness of the sovereign, the

general, and the happy head of the family, made the Protestants around

him forget with what perils this monarch threatened their faith and

thereby themselves; and he, too, the defender and loyal son of the

Church, appeared to thrust aside the thought that the people who greeted

him with such impetuous delight, and shared the two-fold festival of his

family with such warm devotion, were heretics who deserved punishment.

At least he saluted with gracious friendliness the throng that lined

both sides of the road, and as he passed by the garden of the little

castle he even smiled, and glanced toward the building as though a

pleasant memory had been awakened in his mind. At this moment Barbara

gazed into the Emperor’s face.

Those were the features which had worn so tender an expression when, for

the first time, he had uttered the never-to-be-forgotten “Because I long

for love,” and her yearning heart throbbed no less quickly now than on

that night. The wrong and suffering which he had inflicted upon her were

forgotten. She remembered nothing save that she loved him, that he was

the greatest and, to her, the dearest of all men.

It was perfectly impossible for him to see her, but she did not think

of that; and when he looked toward her with such joyous emotion, and the

cheers of the populace, like a blazing fire which a gust of wind fans

still higher, outstripped, as it were, themselves, she could not have

helped joining in the huzzas and shouts and acclamations around her

though she had been punished with imprisonment and death.

And clinging more firmly to the stalactite, Barbara rose on tiptoe and

mingled her voice with the joyous cheers of the multitude.

In the act her breath failed, and she felt a sharp pain in her chest,

but she heeded the suffering as little as she did the weakness of her

limbs. The physical part of her being seemed asleep or dead. Nothing was

awake or living except her soul. Nothing stirred within her breast save

the rapture of seeing him again, the indescribable pleasure of showing

that she loved him.

Already she could no longer see his face, already the dust had concealed

him and his charger from her eyes, yet still, filled with peerless

happiness, she shouted “Charles!” and again and again “Charles!” It

seemed to her as though the air or some good spirit insist bear the cry

to him and assure him of her ardent, inextinguishable love.

The charming royal brides, radiant in their jewels, their betrothed

husbands, and the lords and ladies of their magnificent train passed

Barbara like shadows. The procession of German, Spanish, Hungarian,

Bohemian, and Italian dignitaries swam in a confused medley before her

eyes. The glittering armour of the princes, counts, and barons, the gems

on the heads, the robes, and the horses’ trappings of the ladies and the

Magyar magnates flashed brightly before her, the red hats and robes of

the cardinals gleamed out, but usually everything that her eyes beheld

mingled in a single motley, shining, moving, many-limbed body.

The end of the procession was now approaching, and physical weakness

suddenly asserted itself most painfully.

Barbara felt only too plainly that it was time to leave her post of

observation; her feet would scarcely carry her and, besides, she was

freezing.

She had entered the damp cave chamber in a thin summer gown, and it now

seemed to be continually growing colder and colder.

Climbing down the high steps taxed her like a difficult, almost

impossible task, and perhaps she might not have succeeded in

accomplishing it unaided; but she had scarcely commenced the descent

when she heard her name called, and soon after Sister Hyacinthe entered

the frigidarium and, amid no lack of kindly reproaches, helped her to

reach the open air.

When even in the warm sunshine the chill did not pass away, Barbara saw

that the sister was right, yet she was far from feeling repentant.

During the night a violent attack of fever seized her, and her inflamed

throat was extremely painful.

When Dr. Mathys came to her bedside he already knew from the nun the

cause of this unfortunate relapse, and he understood only too well what

had induced Barbara to commit the grave imprudence. Reproof and warnings

were useless here; the only thing he could do was to act, and renew the

conflict with the scarcely subdued illness. Thanks to his indefatigable

zeal, to the girl’s strong constitution, and to the watchful care of the

nurse, he won the victory a second time. Yet he could not rejoice in a

complete triumph, for the severe inflammation of the bronchial tubes had

caused a hoarseness which would yield to none of his remedies. It might

last a long time, and the thought that the purity of his patient’s voice

was perhaps forever destroyed occasioned sincere regret.

True, he opposed the girl when she expressed this fear; but as July drew

to its close, and her voice still remained husky, he scarcely hoped to

be able to restore the old melody. In other respects he might consider

Barbara cured, and intrust her entire convalescence to her own patience

and caution.

Perhaps the ardent desire to regain the divine gift of song would

protect her from perilous ventures like this last one, and even more

certainly the hope which she had confided to the nun and then to

him also. The physician noticed, with warm sympathy, how deeply this

mysterious expectation had influenced her excitable nature, ever torn by

varying emotions, and the excellent man was ready to aid her as a friend

and intercessor.

Unfortunately, just at this time the pressure of business allowed the

Emperor little leisure to listen to the voice of the heart.

The day before yesterday the Elector John Frederick of Saxony and the

Landgrave Philip of Hesse had been banned, and with this the war began.

Already twelve troops of Spaniards who had served in Hungary, and other

bands of soldiers had entered Ratisbon; cannon came up the Danube from

Austria, and the city, had gained a warlike aspect. To disturb the

Emperor in his work as a general at such a time, with a matter which

must agitate him so deeply, was hazardous, and few would have been bold

enough to bring it before the overburdened monarch; but the leech’s

interest in Barbara was so warm and sincere that he allowed himself

to be persuaded to act the mediator between her and the man who had

interfered so deeply in the destiny of her life. For the first time he

saw her weep, and her winning manner seemed to him equally touching,

whether she yielded to anxious distress of mind or to joyous hopes.

His intercession in her behalf would permit no delay, for the Emperor’s

departure to join the troops was close at hand.

Firmly resolved to plead the cause of the unfortunate girl, whose

preservation, he might say, was his work, yet with slight hope of

success, he crossed the threshold of the imperial apartments.

When the physician informed the sovereign that Barbara might be

considered saved for the second time, the latter expressed his pleasure

by a warm “We are indebted to you for it again “; but when Mathys asked

if he did not intend to hasten Barbara’s recovery by paying her a

visit, though only for a few moments, the Emperor looked into the

grave countenance of the physician, in whom he noticed an embarrassment

usually foreign to him, and said firmly, “Unfortunately, my dear Mathys,

I must deny myself this pleasure.”

The other bowed with a sorrowful face, for Barbara’s dearest wish had

been refused. But the Emperor saw what was passing in the mind of

the man whom he esteemed, and in a lighter tone added: “So even your

invulnerable dragon hide was not proof against the shafts--you know! If

I see aright, something else lies near your heart. My refusal--that is

easily seen--annoys you; but, much as I value your good opinion, Mathys,

it is firm. The more difficult I found it to regain my peace of mind,

the more foolish it would be to expose it to fresh peril. Now, if ever,

I must shun every source of agitation. Think! With the banning, the

general’s work begins. How you look at me! Well, yes! You, too, know how

easy it is for the man who has most to do to spare a leisure hour

which the person without occupation does not find, and neither of us is

accustomed to deceive the other. Besides, it would be of little avail.

So, to cut the matter short, I am unwilling to see Barbara again and

awaken false hopes in her mind! But even these plain words do not seem

to satisfy you.”

“By your Majesty’s permission,” replied the leech, “deeply as I regret

it for the invalid’s sake, I believe, on the contrary, that you are

choosing the right course. But I have only discharged the first part of

my patient’s commission. Though I have no pleasant tidings to take back

to her, I am still permitted to tell her the truth. But your Majesty,

by avoiding an interview with the poor girl, will spare yourself a sad,

nay, perhaps a painful hour.”

“Did the disease so cruelly mar this masterpiece of the Creator?” asked

the Emperor. “With so violent a fever it was only too natural,” replied

the physician. “Time and what our feeble skill can do will improve

her condition, I hope, but--and this causes the poor girl the keenest

suffering--the unfortunate inflammation of the bronchial tubes most

seriously injures the tone of her clear voice.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the startled Emperor with sincere compassion. “Do

everything in your power, Mathys, to purify this troubled spring of

melody. I will repay you with my warmest gratitude, for, though the

Romans said that Cupid conquered through the eyes, yet Barbara’s singing

exerted a far more powerful influence over my heart than even her

wonderful golden hair. Restore the melting tones of her voice and,

though the bond of love which rendered this month of May so exquisitely

beautiful to us must remain severed, I will not fail to remember it with

all graciousness.”

“That, your Majesty, can scarcely be avoided,” the physician here

remarked with an embarrassment which was new in him to Charles, “for the

continuance of the memory of the spring days which your Majesty recalls

with such vivid pleasure seems to be assured. Yet, if it pleases Heaven,

as I have learned to-day for the first time, to call a living being into

existence for this purpose----”

“If I understand you correctly,” cried the Emperor, starting up, “I am

to believe in hopes----”

“In hopes,” interrupted the physician with complete firmness, “which

must not alarm your Majesty, but render you happy. This new branch of

the illustrious trunk of your royal race I, who am only 30 a plain man,

hail with proud joy, and half the world, I know, will do so with me.”

Charles, with brows contracted in a gloomy frown, gazed for a long time

into vacancy.

The leech perceived how mighty a conflict between contradictory emotions

would be waged in his breast, and silently gave him time to collect his

thoughts.

At last, rising from his arm-chair, the Emperor struck the table with

his open hand, and said: “Whether the Lord our God awoke this new life

for our punishment or our pleasure the future will teach. What more must

be done in this matter? You know my custom in regard to such important

affairs. They are slept upon and maturely considered. Only there is one

point,” and as he uttered the words his voice assumed an imperious tone,

“which is already irrevocably decided. The world must not suspect what

hope offers itself to me and another. Tell her, Mathys, we wish her

happiness; but if her maternal heart expects that I will do her child

the honour of calling it mine, I must require her to keep silence, and

intrust the newborn infant’s destiny, from the first hour of its birth,

to my charge.”

Here he hesitated, and, after looking the physician in the face,

went on: “You again think that harsh, Mathys--I see it in your

expression--but, as my friend, you yourself can scarcely desire the

world to see the Emperor Charles performing the same task with a Barbara

Blomberg. She is free to choose. Either I will rear the child, whether

it is a boy or a girl, as my own, as I did my daughter, Duchess Margaret

of Parma, or she will refuse to give me the child from its birth and I

must deny it recognition. I have already shared far too much with

that tempting creature; I can not permit even this new dispensation to

restore my severed relationship with the singer. If Barbara’s maternal

love is unselfish, the choice can not be difficult for her. That the

charge of providing for this new life will fall upon me is a matter of

course. Tell her this, Mathys, and if in future--But no. We will confide

this matter to Quijada.”

As the door closed behind the physician, Charles stood motionless. Deep

earnestness furrowed his brow, but suddenly an expression of triumphant

joy flashed over his face, and then yielded to a look of grateful

satisfaction. Soon, however, his lofty brow clouded again, and his lower

lip protruded. Some idea which excited his indignation must have entered

his mind. He had just been thinking with the warmest joy of the gift

of Fate of which the physician had told him, but now the reasons which

forbade his offering it a sincere welcome crowded upon the thinker.

If Heaven bestowed a son upon him, would not only the Church, but also

the law, which he knew so well, refuse to recognise his rights? A child

whose mother had offended him, whose grandfather was a ridiculous,

impoverished old soldier, whose cousins----

Yet for what did he possess the highest power on earth if he would not

use it to place his own child, in spite of every obstacle, at the height

of earthly grandeur?

What need he care for the opinion of the world? And yet, yet----

Then there was a great bustle below. The loud tramping of horses’ hoofs

was heard. A troop of Lombardy cavalry in full armour appeared on the

Haidplatz--fresh re-enforcements for the war just commencing. The erect

figure of the Duke of Alba, a man of middle height, followed by several

colonels, trotted toward it. The standard-bearer of the Lombards lowered

the banner with the picture of the Madonna before the duke, and the

Emperor involuntarily glanced back into the room at the lovely Madonna

and Child by the master hand of Giovanni Bellini which his royal sister

had hung above his writing table.

How grave and lovely, yet how full of majesty, the Christ-child looked,

how touching a grace surrounded the band of angels playing on violins

above the purest of mothers!

Then the necessity of appealing to her in prayer seized upon him,

and with fervent warmth he besought her to surround with her gracious

protection the young life which owed its existence to him.

He did not think of the child’s mother. Was he still angry with her?

Did she seem to him unworthy of being commended to the protection of the

Queen of Heaven? Barbara was now no more to him than a cracked bell,

and the child which she expected to give him, no matter to what high’

honours he raised it, would bear a stain that nothing could efface, and

this stain would be called “his mother.”

No deviation from the resolve which he had expressed to the physician

was possible. The child could not be permitted to grow up amid Barbara’s

surroundings. To prevent this she must submit to part from her son or

her daughter, and to take the veil. In the convent she could remember

the happiness which had once raised her to its loftiest height. She

could and must atone for her sin and his by prayers and pious exercises.

To return to the low estate whence he had raised her must appear

disgraceful to herself. How could one who had once dined at the table

of the gods still relish the fare of mortals? Even now it seemed

inconceivable to him that she could oppose his will. Yet if she did,

he would withdraw his aid. He no longer loved her. In this hour she was

little more to him than the modest casket to which was confided a jewel

of inestimable value, an object of anxiety and care. The determination

which he had confided to his physician was as immovable as everything

which he had maturely considered. Don Luis Quijada should provide for

its execution.

CHAPTER IV.

Dr. Mathys had himself carried in the litter from the Golden Cross to

Barbara.

This errand was a disagreeable one, for, though the Emperor’s remark

that he had yielded to the rare charm of this woman was not true, his

kindly heart had become warmly attached to Barbara. For the first

time he saw in her the suffering which often causes a metamorphosis in

certain traits in a sick person’s character extend their transforming

power to the entire nature. Passionate love for her art gave her the

ability to maintain with punctilious exactness the silence which he had

been compelled to impose upon her, and the once impetuous, obstinate

creature obeyed his directions and wishes with the patience of a docile

child.

The manner in which, after he permitted her to speak, she had disclosed

in a low whisper her happy yet disquieting secret, hovered before him

now as one of the most pathetic incidents in a life full of varied

experiences.

How touchingly deep misery and the greatest rapture, gloomy anxiety

and radiant joy, bitter dread and sweet anticipation, despairing

helplessness and firm confidence had looked forth at him from the

beautiful face whose noble outlines were made still more delicate by the

illness through which she had passed! He could not have refused even a

more difficult task to this petitioner.

Now he was returning from the Emperor, and he felt like a vanquished

general.

In what form was he to clothe the bad news which he was bringing to the

convalescent girl? Poor child! How heavily she had to atone for her sin,

and how slight was his own and every other influence upon the man, great

even in his selfishness, who had had the power to render him a messenger

of joy!

While the physician was approaching the little castle, she of whom he

was so eagerly thinking awaited his return with feverish suspense. Yet

she was obliged at this very time to devote herself to a visitor. True,

he was the only person whom she would not have refused to see at this

hour.

Wolf Hartschwert was with her.

His first errand after the period of severe suffering through which he

had passed was to Barbara, earnestly as old Ursel had endeavoured to

prevent him.

He had found her under a linden tree in the garden.

How they had met again!

Wolf, pale and emaciated, advanced toward her, leaning on a cane, while

Barbara, with slightly flushed cheeks, reclined upon the pillows which

Sister Hyacinthe had just arranged for her.

Her head seemed smaller, her features had become more delicate and, in

spite of the straw hat which protected her from the dazzling sunshine,

he perceived that her severe illness had cost her her magnificent

golden hair. Still wavy, it now fell only to her neck, and gave her the

appearance of a wonderfully handsome boy.

The hand she extended to him was transparently thin, and when he

clasped it in his, which was only a little larger, and did not seem much

stronger, and she had hoarsely whispered a friendly greeting, his eyes

filled with tears. For a time both were silent. Barbara was the first

to find words and, raising her large eyes beseechingly to his, said: “If

you come to reproach me--But no! You look pale, as though you had only

partially recovered yourself, yet kind and friendly. Perhaps you do not

know that it was through my fault that all these terrible things have

befallen you.”

Here a significant smile told her that he was much better informed than

she supposed, and, lowering her eyes in timid embarrassment, she asked,

“Then you know who it was for whom this foolish heart----”

Here her breath failed, and while she pressed her hand upon her bosom,

Wolf said softly: “If you had only trusted me before! Many things would

not have happened, and much suffering might have been spared. You did

wrong, Wawerl, certainly, but my guilt is the greater, and we were both

punished--oh, how sorely!”

Barbara, amid low sobbing, nodded assent, but he eagerly continued:

“Quijada confided everything to me, and if he--you know--now forgets all

other matters in the war and the anxieties of the general, and, you

need my counsel and aid, we will let what came between us he buried, and

think that we are brother and sister.”

The girl held out her hand to him, saying: “How long you have been a

brother to me! But, as for your advice--Holy Virgin!--I know now less

than ever how I am to fare; but I shall soon learn. I can say no more.

It must be a severe trial to listen to me. Such a raven’s croak from

the throat which usually gave you pleasure, and to which you gladly

listened! Shall I myself ever grow accustomed to this discord? And you?

Answer honestly--I should like to know whether it is very, very terrible

to hear.”

“You are still hoarse,” was the reply. “Such things pass away in a few

weeks, and it will again be a pleasure to hear you sing.”

“Do you really think so?” she cried with sparkling, eyes.

“Firmly and positively,” answered the young knight in a tone of most

honest conviction; but she repeated in joyous excitement, “Firmly and

positively,” and then eagerly continued: “Oh, if you should be right,

Wolf, how happy and grateful I would be, in spite of everything! But I

can talk no longer now. Come again to-morrow, and then the oftener the

better.”

“Unfortunately, that can not be, gladly as I would do so,” he answered

sadly, extending his hand in farewell. “In a few days I shall return to

Brussels.”

“To remain with the regent?” asked Barbara eagerly.

“No,” he answered firmly. “After a short stay with her Majesty, I shall

enter the service of Don Luis Quijada, or rather of his wife.”

“O-o-oh!” she murmured slowly. “The world seems wholly strange to me

after my long illness. I must first collect my thoughts, and that is now

utterly impossible. To-morrow, Wolf! Won’t you come to-morrow? Then

I shall know better what is before me. Thanks, cordial thanks, and if

tomorrow I deny myself to every one else, I will admit you.”

After Wolf had gone, Barbara gazed fixedly into vacancy. What did the

aspiring young musician seek with a nobleman’s wife in a lonely Spanish

castle? Were his wings broken, too, and did he desire only seclusion and

quiet?

But the anxiety which dominated her mind prevented her pursuing the same

thought longer. Dr. Mathys had promised to tell her the result of his

conversation with the Emperor as soon as possible, and yet he had not

returned.

Fool that she was!

Even on a swift steed he could not have traversed the road back to the

castle if he had been detained only half an hour in the Golden Cross.

It was impatience which made the minutes become quarters of an hour. She

would have liked to go to the cool frigidarium again to watch for the

physician’s litter; but she was warned, and had accustomed herself

to follow the doctor’s directions as obediently as a dutiful child.

Besides, Sister Hyacinthe no longer left her alone out of doors, and

possessed a reliable representative, who had won Barbara’s confidence

and affection, in Frau Lamperi, the garde-robiere, whom the Queen of

Hungary had not yet summoned.

So she remained under the linden, and Dr. Mathys did not put her newly

won virtue of patience, which he prized so highly, to too severe a

trial.

Fran Lamperi had watched for him, and hastily announced that his litter

had already passed the Reichart pottery.

Now Barbara did not turn her eyes from the garden door through which the

man she ardently longed to see usually came, and when it opened and the

stout, broad-shouldered leech, with his peaked doctor’s hat, long staff,

and fine linen kerchief in his right hand advanced toward her, she

motioned to the nun and the maid to leave them, and pressed her left

hand upon her heart, for her emotion at the sight of him resembled

the feeling of the prisoner who expects the paper with which the judge

enters his cell to contain his death-warrant.

She thought she perceived her own in the physician’s slow, almost

lagging step. His gait was always measured; but if he had had good news

to bring, he would have approached more rapidly. A sign, a gesture, a

shout would have informed her that he was bearing something cheering.

But there was nothing of this kind.

He did not raise his hat until he stood directly in front of her,

and while mopping his broad, clamp brow and plump cheeks with his

handkerchief, she read in his features the confirmation of her worst

fears.

Now in his grave voice, which sounded still deeper than usual, he

uttered a curt “Well, it can’t be helped,” and shrugged his shoulders

sorrowfully.

This gesture destroyed her last hope. Unable to control herself longer,

she cried out in the husky voice whose hoarse tone was increased by her

intense agitation: “I see it in your face, Doctor; I must be prepared

for the worst.”

“Would to Heaven I could deny it!” he answered in a hollow tone; but

Barbara urged him to speak and conceal nothing from her, not even the

harshest news.

The leech obeyed.

With sincere compassion he saw how her face blanched at his information

that, owing to the pressure of duties which the commencement of the war

imposed upon him, his Majesty would be unable to visit her here. But

when, to sweeten the bitter potion, he had added that when her throat

was well again, and her voice had regained its former melody, the

monarch would once more gladly listen to her, he was startled; for,

instead of answering, she merely shrugged her shoulders contemptuously,

while her face grew corpselike in its pallor. He would have been

best pleased to end his report here, but she could not be spared the

suffering to which she was doomed, and pity demanded that the torture

should be ended as quickly as possible. So, to raise her courage,

he began with the Emperor’s congratulations, and while her eyes were

sparkling brightly and her pale cheeks were crimsoned by a fleeting

flush, he went on, as considerately as he could, to inform her of the

Emperor’s resolution, not neglecting while he did so to place it in a

milder light by many a palliating remark.

Barbara, panting for breath, listened to his report without interrupting

him; but as the physician thought he perceived in the varying expression

of her features and the wandering glance with which she listened tokens

that she did not fully understand what the Emperor required of her, he

summed up his communications once more.

“His Majesty,” he concluded, “was ready to recognise as his own the

young life to be expected, if she would keep the secret, and decide to

commit it to his sole charge from its arrival in the world; but, on the

other hand, he would refuse this to her and to the child if she did not

agree to impose upon herself sacrifice and silence.”

At this brief, plain statement Barbara had pressed her hands upon her

temples and stretched her head far forward toward the physician. Now she

lowered her right hand, and with the question, “So this is what I must

understand?” impetuously struck herself a blow on the forehead.

The patient man again raised his voice to make the expression of the

monarch’s will still plainer, but she interrupted him after the first

few words with the exclamation: “You can spare yourself this trouble,

for the meaning of the man whose message you bear is certainly evident

enough. What my poor intellect fails to comprehend is only--do you

hear?--is only where the faithless traitor gains the courage to make me

so unprecedented a demand. Hitherto I was only not wicked enough to know

that there--there was such an abyss of abominable hard-heartedness, such

fiendish baseness, such----”

Here an uncontrollable fit of coughing interrupted her, but Dr. Mathys

would have stopped her in any case; it was unendurable to him to

listen longer while the great man who was the Emperor, and whom he also

honoured as a man, was reviled with such savage recklessness.

As in so many instances, Charles’s penetration had been superior to his;

for he had not failed to notice to what tremendous extremes this girl’s

hasty temper could carry her. What burning, almost evil passion had

flamed in her eyes while uttering these insults! How perfectly right

his Majesty was to withdraw from all association with a woman of so

irresponsible a nature!

He repressed with difficulty the indignation which had overpowered him

until her coughing ceased, then, in a tone of stern reproof, he declared

that he could not and ought not to listen to such words. She whom the

Emperor Charles had honoured with his love would perhaps in the future

learn to recognise his decision as wise, though it might offend her now.

When she had conquered the boundless impetuosity which so ill beseemed

her, she herself would probably perceive how immeasurably deep and wide

was the gulf which separated her from the sacred person of the man who,

next to God, was the highest power on earth. Not only justice but duty

would command the head of the most illustrious family in the world to

claim the sole charge of his child, that it might be possible to train

it unimpeded to the lofty position of the father, instead of the humble

one of the mother.

Hitherto Barbara had remained silent, but her breath had come more

and more quickly, the tremor of the nostrils had increased; but at the

physician’s last remark she could control herself no longer, and burst

forth like a madwoman: “And you pretend to be my friend, pretend to be

a fairminded man? You are the tool, the obedient echo of the infamous

wretch who now stretches his robber hand toward my most precious

possession! Ay, look at me as though my frank speech was rousing the

greatest wrath in your cowardly soul! Where was the ocean-deep gulf when

the perjured betrayer clasped me in his arms, uttered vows of love, and

called himself happy because his possession of me would beautify the

evening of his life? Now my voice has lost its melting music, and he

sends his accomplice to leave the mute ‘nightingale’--how often he has

called me so!--to her fate.”

Here she faltered, and her cheeks glowed with excitement as, with her

clinched hand on her brow, she continued: “Must everything be changed

and overturned because this traitor is the Emperor, and the betrayed

only the child of a man who, though plain, is worthy of all honour, and

who, besides, was not found on the highway, but belongs to the class of

knights, from whom even the proudest races of sovereigns descend?

You trample my father and me underfoot, to exalt the grandeur of your

master. You make him the idol, to humble me to a worm; and what you

grant the she-wolf--the right of defence when men undertake to rob her

of her young--you deny me, and, because I insist upon it, I must be a

deluded, unbridled creature.”

Here she sobbed aloud and covered her face with her hands; but Dr.

Mathys had been obliged to do violence to his feelings in order not to

put a speedy end to the fierce attack. Her glance had been like that

of an infuriated wild beast as the rage in her soul burst forth with

elementary power, and the sharpness of her hoarse voice still pierced

him to the heart.

Probably the man of honour whom she had so deeply-insulted felt

justified in paying her in the same coin, but the mature and experienced

physician knew how much he must place to the account of the physical

condition of this unfortunate girl, and did not conceal from himself

that her charges were not wholly unjustifiable. So he restrained

himself, and when she had gained control over the convulsive sobbing

which shook her bosom, he told her his intention of leaving her and not

returning until he could expect a less hostile reception. Meanwhile

she might consider whether the Emperor’s decision was not worthy

of different treatment. He would show his good will to her anew by

concealing from his Majesty what he had just heard, and what she, at no

distant day, would repent as unjust and unworthy of her.

Then Barbara angrily burst forth afresh: “Never, never, never will that

happen! Neither years nor decades would efface the wrong inflicted upon

me to-day. But oh, how I hate him who makes this shameful demand--yes,

though you devour me with your eyes--hate him, hate him! I do so even

more ardently than I loved him! And you? Why should you conceal it? From

kindness to me? Perhaps so! Yet no, no, no! Speak freely! Yes, you must,

must tell him so to his face! Do it in my name, abused, ill-treated as I

am, and tell him----”

Here the friendly man’s patience gave out, and, drawing his little broad

figure stiffly up, he said repellently: “You are mistaken in me, my

dear. If you need a messenger, you must seek some one else. You have

taken care to make me sincerely regret having discharged this office for

your sake. Besides, your recovery will progress without my professional

aid; and, moreover, I shall leave Ratisbon with my illustrious master in

a few days.”

He turned his back upon her as he spoke. When toward evening the

Emperor asked him how Barbara had received his decision, he shrugged

his shoulders and answered: “As was to be expected. She thinks herself

ill-used, and will not give up the child.”

“She will have a different view in the convent,” replied the Emperor.

“Quijada shall talk with her to-morrow, and De Soto and the pious

nuns here will show her where she belongs. The child--that matter is

settled--will be taken from her.”

The execution of the imperial will began on the very next morning. First

the confessor De Soto appeared, and with convincing eloquence showed

Barbara how happily she could shape her shadowed life within the sacred

quiet of the convent. Besides, the helpless creature whose coming

she was expecting with maternal love could rely upon the father’s

recognition and aid only on condition that she yielded to his Majesty’s

expressed will.

Barbara, though with no little difficulty, succeeded in maintaining her

composure during these counsels and the declaration of the servant of

the Holy Church. Faithful to the determination formed during the night,

she imposed silence upon herself, and when De Soto asked for a positive

answer, she begged him to grant her time for consideration.

Soon after Don Luis Quijada was announced. This time he did not appear

in the dark Spanish court costume, but in the brilliant armour of the

Lombard regiment whose command had been entrusted to him.

When he saw Barbara, for the first time after many weeks, he was

startled.

Only yesterday she had seemed to Wolf Hartschwert peerlessly beautiful,

but the few hours which had elapsed between the visit of the physician

and the major-domo had sadly changed her. Her large, bright eyes were

reddened by weeping, and the slight lines about the corners of the mouth

had deepened and lent her a severe expression.

A hundred considerations had doubtless crowded upon her during the

night, yet she by no means repented having showed the leech what she

thought of the betrayer in purple and the demand which he made upon her.

De Soto’s attempt at persuasion had only increased her defiance. Instead

of reflecting and thinking of her own welfare and of the future of the

beloved being whose coming she dreaded, yet who seemed to her the most

precious gift of Heaven, she strengthened herself more and more in the

belief that it was due to her own dignity to resist the Emperor’s cruel

encroachments upon her liberty. She knew that she owed Dr. Mathys a debt

of gratitude, but she thought herself freed from that duty since he had

made himself the blind tool of his master.

Now the Spaniard, who had never been her friend, also came to urge

the Emperor’s will upon her. Toward him she need not force herself to

maintain the reserve which she had exercised in her conversation with

the confessor.

On the contrary!

He should hear, with the utmost plainness, what she thought of the

Emperor’s instructions. If he, his confidant, then showed him that there

was one person at least who did not bow before his pitiless power, and

that hatred steeled her courage to defy him, one of the most ardent

wishes of her indignant, deeply wounded heart would be fulfilled. The

only thing which she still feared was that her aching throat might

prevent her from freely pouring forth what so passionately agitated her

soul.

She now confronted the inflexible nobleman, not a feature in whose

clear-cut, nobly moulded, soldierly face revealed what moved him.

When, in a businesslike tone, he announced his sovereign’s will,

she interrupted him with the remark that she knew all this, and had

determined to oppose her own resolve to his Majesty’s wishes.

Don Luis calmly allowed her to finish, and then asked: “So you refuse to

take the veil? Yet I think, under existing circumstances, nothing could

become you better.”

“Life in a convent,” she answered firmly, “is distasteful to me, and

I will never submit to it. Besides, you were hardly commissioned to

discuss what does or does not become me.”

“By no means,” replied the Spaniard calmly; “yet you can attribute the

remark to my wish to serve you. During the remainder of our conference I

will silence it, and can therefore be brief.”

“So much the better,” was the curt response. “Well, then, so you insist

that you will neither keep the secret which you have the honour of

sharing with his Majesty, nor----”

“Stay!” she eagerly interrupted. “The Emperor Charles took care to make

the bond which united me to him cruelly hateful, and therefore I am not

at all anxious to inform the world how close it once was.”

Here Don Luis bit his lips, and a frown contracted his brow. Yet he

controlled himself, and asked with barely perceptible excitement,

“Then I may inform his Majesty that you would be disposed to keep this

secret?”

“Yes,” she answered curtly.

“But, so far as the convent is concerned, you persist in your refusal?”

“Even a noble and kind man would never induce me to take the veil.”

Now Quijada lost his composure, and with increasing indignation

exclaimed: “Of all the men on earth there is probably not one who cares

as little for the opinion of an arrogant woman wounded in her vanity. He

stands so far above your judgment that it is insulting him to undertake

his defence. In short, you will not go to the convent?”

“No, and again no!” she protested bitterly. “Besides, your promise ought

to bind you to still greater brevity. But it seems to please your noble

nature to insult a defenceless, ill-treated woman. True, perhaps it is

done on behalf of the mighty man who stands so far above me.”

“How far, you will yet learn to your harm,” replied Don Luis, once

more master of himself. “As for the child, you still seem determined

to withhold it from the man who will recognise it as his solely on this

condition?”

Barbara thought it time to drop the restraint maintained with so much

difficulty, and half with the intention of letting Charles’s favourite

hear the anguish that oppressed her heart, half carried away by the

resentment which filled her soul, she permitted it to overflow and, in

spite of the pain which it caused her to raise her voice, she ceased

whispering, and cried: “You ask to hear what I intend to do? Nothing,

save to keep what is mine! Though I know how much you dislike me, Don

Luis Quijada, I call upon you to witness whether I have a right to this

child and to consideration from its father; for when you, his messenger

of love, led me for the first time to the man who now tramples me so

cruelly under his feet, you yourself heard him greet me as the sun which

was again rising for him. But that is forgotten! If his will is not

executed, mother and child may perish in darkness and misery. Well,

then, will against will! He has the right to cease to love me and to

thrust me from him, but it is mine to hate him from my inmost soul, and

to make my child what I please. Let him grow up as Heaven wills, and if

he perishes in want and shame, if he is put in the pillory or dies on

the scaffold, one mission at least will be left for me. I will shriek

out to the world how the royal betrayer provided for the welfare of his

own blood!”

“Enough!” interrupted Don Luis in mingled wrath and horror. “I will

not and can not listen longer while gall and venom are poured upon the

sacred head of the greatest of men.”

“Then leave me!” cried Barbara, scarcely able to use her voice. “This

room, at least, will be mine until I can no longer accept even shelter

from the traitor who--you used the words yourself--instilled venom and

bitter gall into my soul.”

Quijada, with a slight bend of the head, turned and left the room.

When the door closed behind him, Barbara, with panting breath and

flashing eyes, threw herself into an arm-chair, content as if she had

been relieved of a heavy burden, but the Emperor’s envoy mounted the

horse on which he had come, and rode away.

He fared as the leech had done the day before. Barbara’s infamous abuse

still fired his blood, but he could not conceal from himself that this

unfortunate woman had been wronged by his beloved and honoured master.

In truth, he had more than once heard the ardent professions of love

with which Charles had greeted and dismissed her, and his chivalrous

nature rebelled against the severity with which he made her suffer for

the cruelty of Fate that had prematurely robbed her of what had been to

him her dearest charm.

Before he went to Prebrunn, Dr. Mathys had counselled him not to forget

during the disagreeable reception awaiting him that he was dealing with

an irritable invalid, and the thoroughly noble man resolved to remember

it as an excuse. The Emperor Charles should learn only that Barbara

refused to submit to his arrangements, that his harshness deeply wounded

her and excited her quick temper. He was unwilling to expose himself

again to an outburst of her rage, and he would therefore intrust to

another the task of rendering her more docile, and this other was Wolf

Hartschwert.

A few days before he had visited the recovering knight, and obtained

from him a decision whose favourable nature filled him with secret joy

whenever he thought of it.

Wolf had already learned from the valet Adrian the identity of the

person to whom he had been obliged to yield precedence in Barbara’s

heart, and how generously Quijada had kept silence concerning the

wound which he had dealt him. When Don Luis freely forgave him for the

unfortunate misunderstanding for which he, too, was not wholly free from

blame, Wolf had thrown himself on his knees and warmly entreated him

to dispose of him, who owed him more than life, as he would of himself.

Then, opening his whole heart, he revealed what Barbara had been to

him, and how, unable to control his rage, he had rushed upon him when he

thought he had discovered, in the man who had just asked him to go far

away from the woman he loved, her betrayer.

After this explanation, Quijada had acquiesced in the knight’s wish that

he should give him the office offered on that luckless evening, and he

now felt disposed also to intrust to him further negotiations with the

singer.

In the report made to the Emperor, Don Luis suppressed everything which

could offend him; but Charles remained immovable in his determination

to withdraw the expected gift of Fate, from its first entrance into the

world, from every influence except his own. Moreover, he threatened that

if the blinded girl continued to refuse to enter the convent and yield

up the child, he would withdraw his aid from both. After a sleepless

night, however, he remarked, on the following morning, that he perceived

it to be his duty, whatever might happen, to assume the care of the

child who was entitled to call him its father. What he would do for the

mother must depend upon her future conduct. This was another instance

how every trespass of the bounds of the moral order which the Church

ordains and hallows entails the most sorrowful consequences even here

below. Precisely because he was so strongly attached to this unfortunate

woman, once so richly gifted, he desired to offer her the opportunity to

obtain pardon from Heaven, and therefore insisted upon her retiring to

the convent. His own guilt was causing him great mental trouble and, in

fact, notwithstanding the arduous labour imposed upon him by the war,

the most melancholy mood again took possession of him.

The day before his departure to join the army which was gathered near by

at Landshut, he withdrew once more into the apartment draped with sable

hangings.

When he was informed that Barbara wished to leave the Prebrunn castle,

he burst into a furious passion, and commanded that she should be kept

there, even if it was necessary to use force.

CHAPTER V.

Everything in Barbara’s residence had remained as it was when she

arrived, only the second story, since the departure of the marquise,

had stood empty. Two horses had been left in the stable, the steward

performed his duties as before, the cook presided in the kitchen, and

Frau Lamperi attended to Barbara’s rooms.

Nevertheless, at Wolf’s first visit he was obliged to exert all his

powers of persuasion to induce his miserable friend to give up

her resolution of moving into her former home. Besides, after the

conversation with Charles’s messenger, she had felt so ill that no

visitor except himself had been received.

When, a few days later, she learned that the Emperor had set out for

Landshut, she entreated Wolf to seek out Pyramus Kogel, for she had just

learned that during her illness her father’s travelling companion

had asked to see her, but, like every one else, had been refused.

She grieved because they had forgotten to tell her this; but when she

discovered that the same stately officer had called again soon after the

relapse, she angrily upbraided, for the first time, Frau Lamperi, who

was to blame for the neglect, and her grief increased when, on the

same day, a messenger brought from the man who had twice been denied

admittance a letter which inclosed one from her father, and briefly

informed her that he should set out at once for Landshut. As she would

not receive him, he must send her the captain’s messages in this way.

It appeared from the old man’s letter that, while leaving the ship

at Antwerp, he had met with an accident, and perhaps might long be

prevented from undertaking the toilsome journey home. But he was well

cared for, and if she was still his clear daughter, she must treat Herr

Pyramus Kogel kindly this time, for he had proved a faithful son and

good Samaritan to him.

A stranger’s hand had written this letter, which contained nothing more

about the old soldier’s health, but reminded her of a tin tankard which

he had forgotten to deliver, and urged her to care for the ever-burning

lamp in the chapel. It closed with the request to offer his profound

reverence at the feet of his Majesty, the most gracious, most glorious,

and most powerful Emperor, and the remark that there was much to say

about the country of Spain, but the best was certainly when one thought

of it after turning the back upon it.

As a postscript, he had written with his own hand, as the crooked

letters showed: “Mind what I told you about Sir Pyramus, without whom

you would now be a deserted orphan. Can you believe that in all Spain

there is no fresh butter to be had, either for bread or in the kitchen

for roast meat, but instead rancid oil, which we should think just fit

for burning?”

With deep shame Barbara realized through this letter how rarely she

remembered her father. Only since she knew positively what joy and what

anxiety awaited her had she again thought frequently of him, but

always with great fear of the old man whose head had grown gray in an

honourable life. Now the hour was approaching when she would be obliged

to confess to him what she still strove to deem a peerless favour of

Fate, for which future generations would envy her. Perhaps he who looked

up to the Emperor Charles with such enthusiastic devotion would

agree with her; perhaps what she must disclose to him would spoil the

remainder of his life. The image of the aged sufferer, lying in pain

and sorrow far from her old his home, in a stranger’s house, constantly

forced itself upon her, and she often dwelt upon it, imagining it with

ingenious self-torture.

Love for another had estranged her from him who possessed the first

claim to every feeling of tenderness and gratitude in her heart. The

thought that she could do nothing for him and give him no token of her

love pierced deep into her soul. Every impulse of her being urged her

to learn further details of him and his condition. As Pyramus Kogel was

staying in Landshut, she wrote a note entreating him, if possible, to

come to Ratisbon to tell her about her father, or, if this could not be,

to inform her by letter how he fared.

There was no lack of messengers going to Landshut, and the answer was

not delayed. During these war times, Pyramus answered, he was not his

own master even for a moment; therefore he must deny himself a visit

to her, and he also lacked time for a detailed account by letter. If,

however, she could resolve to do him the honour of a visit, he would

promise her a more cordial reception than he had experienced on her

side. For the rest, her father was being carefully nursed, and his life

was no longer in danger.

At first Barbara took this letter for an ungenerous attempt of the

insulted man to repay the humiliation which he had received from her;

but the news from the throngs of troops pouring into the city made the

officer’s request appear in a milder light, and the longing to ascertain

her father’s condition daily increased.

At the end of the first week in August her strength would have sufficed

for the short drive to Landshut. True, she was as hoarse as when she

gave the physician a disinclination to return, but she had regained her

physical vigour, and had taken walks, without special fatigue, sometimes

with Wolf, sometimes with Gombert. The latter, as well as Appenzelder,

still frequently called upon her, and tried to diminish her grief over

the injury to her voice by telling her of hundreds of similar cases

which had resulted favourably.

The musicians were to return to Brussels the next day. Appenzelder would

not leave his boy choir, but Gombert had accepted an invitation from

the Duke of Bavaria, at whose court in Munich the best music was eagerly

fostered. His road would lead him through Landshut, and how more than

gladly Barbara would have accompanied him there!

She must now bid farewell to Appenzelder and Massi, and it was evident

that the parting was hard for them also. The eyes of the former even

grew dim with tears as he pressed a farewell kiss upon Barbara’s brow.

The little Maltese, Hannibal Melas, would have preferred to stay with

her--nay, he did not cease entreating her to keep him, though only as a

page; but how could he have been useful to her?

Finally, she was obliged to bid Wolf, too, farewell, perhaps for many

years.

During the last few days he had again proved his old friendship in

the most loyal manner. Through Quijada he had learned everything which

concerned her and the Emperor Charles, and this had transformed his

former love for Barbara, which was by no means dead, into tender

compassion.

Not to serve the monarch or the husband of his new mistress in

Villagarcia, but merely to lighten her own hard fate, he had not ceased

to represent what consequences it might entail upon her if she should

continue to defy the Emperor’s command so obstinately.

He, too, saw in the convent the fitting place for her future life, now

bereft of its best possessions; but although she succeeded in retaining

her composure during his entreaties and warnings, she still most

positively refused to obey the Emperor’s order.

Her strong desire to visit Landshut was by no means solely from the

necessity of hearing the particulars about her father, and the wish

to see so brilliant an assemblage of troops from all countries, but

especially the consuming longing to gaze once more into the face of

the lover who was now making her so miserable, yet to whom she owed the

greatest joy of her life.

And more!

She thought it would restore her peace of mind forever if she could

succeed in speaking to him for even one brief moment and telling him

what a transformation his guilt had wrought in her ardent love and her

whole nature.

Wolf’s representations and imploring entreaties remained as futile as

those of Sister Hyacinthe and the abbesses of the Clare Sisters and the

Convent of the Holy Cross, who had sought her by the confessor’s

wish. None of these pious women, except her nurse, knew the hope she

cherished. They saw in her only the Emperor’s discarded love; yet as

such it seemed to them that Barbara was bidden to turn her back upon

the world, which had nothing similar to offer her, in order, as the

Saviour’s bride, to seek a new and loftier happiness.

But Barbara’s vivacious temperament shrank from their summons as from

the tomb or the dungeon and, with all due reverence, she said so to the

kindly nuns.

She desired no new happiness, nay, she could not imagine that she

would ever again find joy in anything save the heavenly gift which she

expected with increasing fear, and yet glad hope. Yet they wished to

deprive her of this exquisite treasure, this peerless comfort for the

soul! But she had learned how to defend herself, and they should never

succeed in accomplishing this shameful purpose. She would keep her

child, though it increased the Emperor’s resentment to the highest

pitch, and deprived her of every expectation of his care.

Eagerly as Wolf praised Quijada’s noble nature, she commanded him to

assure the Castilian, whose messenger he honestly confessed himself to

be, that she would die rather than yield to the Emperor’s demands.

When the time at last came to part from Wolf also, and he pressed his

lips to her hand, she felt that she could rely upon him, no matter how

sad her future life might be. He added many another kind and friendly

word; then, in an outburst of painful emotion, cried: “If only you had

been contented with my faithful love, Wawerl, how very different, how

much better everything would have been, how happy I might be! and, if

loyal love possesses the power of bestowing happiness, you, too----”

Here Barbara pointed mournfully to her poor aching throat and, while he

earnestly protested that, deeply as he lamented the injury to her voice,

this cruel misfortune would by no means have lessened his love, her eyes

suddenly flashed, and there was a strange quiver around the corners of

her mouth as she thought: “Keep that opinion. But I would not exchange

for a long life, overflowing with the happiness which you, dear, good

fellow, could offer me, the brief May weeks that placed me among the few

who are permitted to taste the highest measure of happiness.”

Yet she listened with sincere sympathy to what he had heard of

Villagarcia and Magdalena de Ulloa, Quijada’s wife, and what he expected

to find there and in Valladolid.

It pleased her most to know that he would be permitted to return

sometimes to the Netherlands. When once there, he must seek her out

wherever her uncertain destiny had cast her.

When, in saying this, her hoarse voice failed and tears of pain and

sorrow filled her eyes, emotion overpowered him also and, after he had

again urged her to submit to the will of their imperial master, he tore

himself away with a last farewell.

The ardent, long-cherished passion which had brought the young knight

full of hope to Ratisbon had changed to compassion. With drooping head,

disappointed, and heavily burdened with anxiety for the future of the

woman who had exerted so powerful an influence upon his fate, he left

the home of his childhood; but Barbara saw him go with the sorrowful

fear that, in the rural solitude which awaited him in Spain, her

talented friend would lose his art and every loftier aspiration; yet

both felt sure that, whatever might be the course of their lives, each

would hold a firm place in the other’s memory.

A few hours after this farewell Barbara received a letter from the

Council, in which Wolf Hartschwert secured to her and her father during

their lives the free use of the house which he had inherited in Red

Cock Street, with the sole condition of allowing his faithful Ursula to

occupy the second story until her death.

The astonished girl at once went to express her thanks for so much

kindness; but Wolf had left Ratisbon a short time before, and when

Barbara entered the house she found old Ursula at the window with her

tear-stained face resting on her clasped hands. When she heard her name

called, she raised her little head framed in the big cap, and as soon as

she recognised the unexpected visitor she cast so malevolent a glance at

her that a shiver ran through the girl’s frame.

After a few brief words of greeting, Barbara left the old woman,

resolving not to enter the house soon again.

In passing the chapel she could and would not resist its strong power

of attraction. With bowed head she entered the quiet little sanctuary,

repeated a paternoster, and prayed fervently to the Mother of God

to restore the clearness of her voice once more. While doing so, she

imagined that the gracious intercessor gazed down upon her sometimes

compassionately, sometimes reproachfully, and, in the consciousness of

her guilt, she raised her hands, imploring forgiveness, to the friendly,

familiar figure.

How tenderly the Christ-child nestled to the pure, exalted mother!

Heaven intended to bestow a similar exquisite gift upon her also, and

already insolent hands were outstretched to tear it from her. True, she

was determined to defend herself bravely, yet her best friend advised

her to yield without resistance to this unprecedented demand.

What should she do?

With her brow pressed against the priedieu, she strove to attain calm

reflection in the presence of the powerful and gracious Queen of

Heaven. If she yielded the child to its cruel father, she would thereby

surrender to him the only happiness to which she still possessed a

claim; if she succeeded in keeping it for herself, she would deprive it

of the favour of the mighty sovereign, who possessed the power to bestow

upon it everything which the human heart craves. Should she persist in

resistance or yield to the person to whom she had already sacrificed so

much the great blessing which had the ability to console her for every

other loss, even the most cruel?

Then her refractory heart again rebelled. This was too much; Heaven

itself could not require it of her, the divine Mother who, before her

eyes, was pressing her child so tenderly to her bosom, least of all.

Hers, too, would be a gift of God, and, while repeating this to herself,

it seemed as though a voice cried out: “It is the Lord himself who

intends to confide this child to you, and if you give it up you deprive

it of its mother and rob it--you have learned that yourself--of its

best possession. What was given to you to cherish tenderly, you can not

confide to another without angering him who bestowed the guerdon upon

you.”

Just at that moment she thought of the star, her lover’s first memento,

with which she had parted from weakness, though with a good intention.

The misfortune which she was now enduring had grown out of this

lamentable yielding. No! She would not, ought not to allow herself to be

robbed of her precious hope. One glance at the Mother and Child put an

end to any further consideration.

Comforted and strengthened, she went her way homeward, scarcely noticing

that Peter Schlumperger and his sister, whom she met, looked away from

her with evident purpose.

CHAPTER VI.

That night Barbara dreamed of her father. Birds of prey were attacking

his body as it lay upon the ground, and she could not drive them off.

The terror with which this spectacle had disturbed her sleep could not

be banished during the morning. Now, whatever it cost, she must go to

Landshut and hear some tidings of him.

Maestro Gombert would set out for Munich the next day, and in doing so

must pass the neighbouring city. If he would carry her with him, she

would be safe. He came at twilight to take leave of her, and with

genuine pleasure gave her the second seat in his travelling carriage.

Early the following morning the vehicle, drawn by post horses, stopped

before the little Prebrunn castle, and Barbara was soon driving with the

musician through the pleasant country in the warm August day.

Sister Hyacinthe and Fran Lamperi had tried to prevent her departure by

entreaties and remonstrances, for both feared that the long ride might

injure her; and, moreover, the latter had been charged by Quijada, in

the Emperor’s name, to keep her in the castle and, if she left it, to

inform him at once by a mounted messenger.

As Barbara could not be detained, Frau Lamperi, though reluctantly,

obeyed this command.

Before leaving Prebrunn Barbara had warned Gombert that he would find

her a very uninteresting companion, since it was still impossible to

talk much; but Gombert would not admit this. To a true friend, the mere

presence of the other gives pleasure, even though he should not open his

lips.

The girl had become very dear to him, and her presence made time

pass swiftly, for the great musician liked to talk and conversed

bewitchingly, and he had long since discovered that Barbara was a good

listener.

Besides, the motley life on the road attracted his attention as well

as his travelling companion’s, for the war had begun, and already would

have resulted in a great victory for the Smalcalds, at the foot of the

Bavarian Alps, had not the Augsburg Military Council prevented the able

commander in chief Schartlin von Burtenbach and his gallant lieutenant

Schenkwitz from profiting by the advantage won. The way to Italy and

Trent, where the Council was in session, was already open to the allied

Protestants, but they were forbidden from the green table to follow it.

It would have led them through Bavarian territory, and thereby perhaps

afforded Duke William, the ruler of the country, occasion to abjure his

neutrality and turn openly against the Smalcalds.

The shortsightedness with which the Protestants permitted the Emperor to

remain so long in Ratisbon unmolested, and gather troops and munitions

of war, Gombert had heard termed actually incomprehensible.

The travellers might expect to find a large force in Landshut, among

the rest ten thousand Italians and eight thousand Spaniards. This, the

musician explained to his companion, was contrary to the condition of

his Majesty’s election, which prohibited his bringing foreign soldiers

into Germany; but war was a mighty enterprise, which broke even Firmer

contracts.

A bitter remark about the man who, even in peace, scorned fidelity and

faith, rose to Barbara’s lips; but as she knew the warm enthusiasm which

Gombert cherished for his imperial master, she controlled herself, and

continued to listen while he spoke of the large re-enforcements which

Count Buren was leading from the Netherlands.

A long and cruel war might be expected, for, though his Majesty

assumed that religion had nothing to do with it, the saying went--here

Catholics, here Protestants. The Pope gave his blessing to those who

joined Charles’s banner, and wherever people had deserted the Church

they said that they were taking the field for the pure religion against

the unchristian Council and the Romish antichrist.

“But it really can not be a war in behalf of our holy faith,” Barbara

here eagerly interposed, “for the Duke of Saxony is our ally, and Oh,

just look! we must pass there directly.”

She pointed as she spoke to a peasant cart just in front of them, whose

occupants had been hidden until now by the dust of the road. They were

two Protestant clergymen in the easily recognised official costume of

their faith--a long, black robe and a white ruff around the neck.

Gombert, too, now looked in surprise at the ecclesiastical gentlemen,

and called the commander of the four members of the city guard who

escorted his carriage.

The troops marching beside them were the soldiers of the Protestant

Margrave Hans von Kustrin who, in spite of his faith, had joined the

Emperor, his secular lord, who asserted that he was waging no religious

war. The clergymen were the field chaplains of the Protestant bands.

When the travellers had passed the long baggage train, in which women

and children filled peasant carts or trudged on foot, and reached the

soldiers themselves, they found them well-armed men of sturdy figure.

The Neapolitan regiment, which preceded the Kustrin one, presented

an entirely different appearance with its shorter, brown-skinned,

light-footed soldiers. Here, too, there was no lack of soldiers’ wives

and children, and from two of the carts gaily bedizened soldiers’

sweethearts waved their hands to the travellers. In front of the

regiment were two wagons with racks, filled with priests and monks

bearing crosses and church banners, and before them, to escape the dust,

a priest of higher rank with his vicar rode on mules decked with gay

trappings.

On the way to Eggmuhl the carriage passed other bodies of troops. Here

the horses were changed, and now Gombert walked with Barbara in front of

the vehicle to “stretch their legs.”

A regiment from the Upper Palatinate was encamped outside of the

village. The prince to whom it belonged had given it a free ration of

wine at the noonday rest, and the soldiers were now lying on the grass

with loosened helmets and armour, feeling very comfortable, and singing

in their deep voices a song newly composed in honour of the Emperor

Charles to the air, “Cheer up, ye gallant soldiers all!”

The couple so skilled in music stopped, and Barbara’s heart beat quicker

as she listened to the words which the fair-haired young trooper close

beside her was singing in an especially clear voice:

“Cheer up, ye gallant soldiers all!

Be blithe and bold of mind

With faith on God we’ll loudly call,

Then on our ruler kind.

His name is worthy of our praise,

Since to the throne God doth him raise;

So we will glorify him, too,

And render the obedience due.

Of an imperial race he came,

To this broad empire heir;

Carolus is his noble name,

God-sent its crown to wear.

Mehrer is his just title grand,

The sovereign of many a land

Which God hath given to his care

His name rings on the air!”

[Mehrer--The increaser, an ancient title of the German emperors]

How much pleasure this song afforded Barbara, although it praised the

man whom she thought she hated; and when the third verse began with the

words,

“So goodly is the life he leads

Within this earthly vale,”

oh, how gladly she would have joined in!

That could not be, but she sang with them in her heart, for she had long

since caught the tune, and how intently the soldiers would have listened

if it had been possible for her to raise her voice as usual! Amid the

singing of all these men her clear, bell-like tones would have risen

like the lark soaring from the grain field, and what a storm of applause

would have greeted her from these rough throats!

Grief for the lost happiness of pouring forth her feelings in melody

seized upon her more deeply than for a long time. She would fain have

glided quietly away to escape the cause of this fresh sorrow. But

Gombert was listening to the young soldier’s song with interest, so

Barbara continued to hear the young warrior as, with evident enthusiasm,

he sang the verse:

“Patient and tolerant is he,

Nor vengeance seeks, nor blood;

E’en though he errs, as well may be,

His heart is ever good.”

She, too, had deemed this heart so, but now she knew better. Yet it

pleased her that the fair-haired soldier so readily believed the poet

and, obeying a hasty impulse, she put her hand into the pouch at her

belt to give him a gold piece; but Gombert nudged her, and in his broken

Netherland German repeated the verse which he had just heard:

“‘Tis stern necessity that forced

The sword into his hand;

‘Tis not for questions of the faith

That he doth make his stand.”

So the soldiers believed that their commander had only grasped the sword

when compelled to do so, and that religion had nothing to do with the

war, but the leader of the orchestra knew better. The conversations

of the Spaniards at the court, and the words which De Soto had uttered

lauding the Emperor, “Since God placed my foes in my hands, I must wage

war upon his enemies,” were plain enough.

Gombert repeated this remark in a low tone but, ere Barbara could answer

him, the carriage, with its fresh relay of horses, stopped in the road.

It was time to get in again, but Barbara dreaded the ride over the

rough, crowded highway, and begged her companion to pursue their journey

a little farther on foot. He consented and, as the girl now flung a

gold gulden to the blond leader of the voices, cheers from the soldiers

followed them.

Leaning on Gombert’s arm, Barbara now moved on more cheerfully until

they were stopped by the vivandiere’s counter.

The portly woman stood comfortably at ease behind her eatables and

drinkables, rested her fists on her hips, and glanced toward her

assistant, who stared boldly into the musician’s face, and asked him to

take some refreshment for himself and his sweetheart.

She was a young creature, with features prematurely haggard, cheeks

scarlet with rouge, and eyebrows and lashes dyed black. The infant which

a pale little girl nine years old was tending belonged to her. She had

had her hair cut close, and her voice was so discordantly hoarse that it

hurt Barbara’s ears.

As the bold young woman tapped Gombert lightly on the arm and, with

fresh words of invitation, pointed toward the counter, a shiver ran

through Barbara’s limbs. Even her worst enemy would not have ventured to

compare her with this outcast, but she did herself as she thought of her

own cropped hair and injured voice. Perhaps the child in the arms of

the pale nine-year-old nurse was disowned by its father, and did not

the greatest of sovereigns intend to do the same to his, if the mother

refused to obey him?

These disagreeable thoughts fell upon her soul like mildew upon growing

grain, and after Gombert had helped her into the carriage again she

begged him to let her rest in silence for a while. The Netherlander, it

is true, had no suspicion of her condition, but he knew that she had not

yet wholly recovered, and carefully pushed his own knapsack under her

feet.

Barbara now closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep, yet she tortured

her mind with the same question which she had vainly tried to decide

in the chapel of Wolf’s house. Besides, she was troubled about the

information which the recruiting officer might give her concerning her

father. And suppose she should meet the Emperor Charles in Landshut, and

be permitted to speak to him?

The blare of trumpets and a loud shout of command roused her from this

joyless reverie. The carriage was passing some squads of Hungarian

cavalry moving at a walk toward Landshut.

Their gay, brilliant appearance scattered the self-torturing thoughts.

Why should she spoil the delightful drive with her friend, which,

besides, was nearly over? Even if the worst happened, it would come only

too soon.

So drawing a long breath, she again turned to her companion, and Gombert

rejoiced in the refreshing influence which, as he supposed, her sleep

had exerted upon her. In an hour he must part from the artist to whom he

owed so much pleasure, whose beauty warmed his aging heart, and who he

frequently wished might regain the wonderful gift now so cruelly lost.

Her fiery vivacity, her thoroughly natural, self-reliant unconcern, her

fresh enthusiasm, the joyousness and industry with which she toiled

at her own cultivation, and the gratitude with which any musical

instruction had been received, had endeared her to him. It would be a

pleasure to see her again, and a veritable banquet of the soul to hear

her sing in the old way.

He told her this with frank affection, and represented to her how much

better suited she was to Brussels than to her stately but dull and quiet

Ratisbon.

With enthusiastic love for his native land, he described the bustling

life in his beautiful, wealthy home. There music and every art

flourished; there, besides the Emperor and his august sister, were

great nobles who with cheerful lavishness patronized everything that was

beautiful and worthy of esteem; thither flocked strangers from the

whole world; there festivals were celebrated with a magnificence and

joyousness witnessed nowhere else on earth. There was the abode of

freedom, joy, and mirth.

Barbara had often wished to see the Netherlands, which the Emperor

Charles also remembered with special affection, but no one had ever thus

transported her to the midst of these flourishing provinces and this

blithesome people.

During the maestro’s description her large eyes rested upon his lips as

if spellbound. She, too, must see this Brabant, and, like every newly

awakened longing, this also quickly took possession of her whole

nature. Only in the Netherlands, she thought, could she regain her lost

happiness. But what elevated this idea to a certainty in her mind was

not only the fostering of music, the spectacles and festivals, the

magnificent velvet, the rustling silk, and the gay, varied life, not

only the worthy Appenzelder and the friend at her side, but, far above

all other things, the circumstance that Brussels was the home of the

Emperor Charles, that there, there alone, she might be permitted to see

again and again, at least from a distance, the man whom she hated.

Absorbed in the Netherlands, she forgot to notice the nearest things

which presented themselves to her gaze.

The last hour of the drive had passed with the speed of an arrow, both

to her and her travelling companion, and just as they were close to

the left bank of the Isar, which was flowing toward them, Gombert’s

old servant turned and, pointing before him with his outstretched hand,

exclaimed, “Here we are in Landshut!” she perceived that the goal of

their journey was gained.

Barbara was familiar with this flourishing place, above which proudly

towered the Trausnitzburg, for here lived her uncle Wolfgang Lorberer,

who had married her mother’s sister, and was a member of the city

Council. Two years before she had spent a whole month as a guest in his

wealthy household, and she intended now to seek shelter there again.

Fran Martha had invited her more than once to come soon, and meanwhile

her two young cousins had grown up.

Two arms of the Isar lay before her, and between them the island of

Zweibrucken.

Before the coach rolled across the first, Barbara gathered her luggage

together and told the postboy where he was to drive. He knew the

handsome Lorberer house, and touched his cap when he heard its owner’s

name. Barbara was glad to be brought to her relatives by the famous

musician; she did not wish to appear as though she had dropped from the

clouds in the house of the aunt who was the opposite of her dead mother,

a somewhat narrow-minded, prudish woman, of whom she secretly stood in

awe.

CHAPTER VII.

Progress was very slow, for many peasants and hogs were coming toward

them from the Schweinemarkt at their right.

The gate was on the second bridge, and here the carriage was compelled

to stop on account of paying the toll. But it could not have advanced in

any case; a considerable number of vehicles and human beings choked

the space before and beyond the gate. Horsemen of all sorts, wagons of

regiments marching in and out, freight vans and country carts, soldiers,

male and female citizens, peasants and peasant women, monks, travelling

journeymen, and vagrants impeded their progress, and it required a long

time ere the travelling carriage could finally pass the gate and reach

the end of the bridge.

There the crowd between it, the Hospital of the Holy Ghost, and the

church belonging to it seemed absolutely impenetrable. The vehicle was

forced to stop, and Gombert stood up and overlooked the motley throng

surrounding it.

Barbara had also risen from her seat, pointed out to her companion one

noteworthy object after another, and finally a handsome sedan chair

which rested on the ground beside the hospital.

“His Majesty’s property,” she said eagerly; “I know it well.”

Here she hesitated and turned pale, for she had just noticed what

Gombert now called to her attention.

Don Luis Quijada, with the haughty precision of the Castilian grandee,

was passing through the humble folk around him and advancing directly

toward her.

All who separated him from the carriage submissively made way for the

commander of the Lombard regiment; but Barbara looked toward the right

and the left, and longed to spring from the vehicle and hide herself

amid the throng.

But it was too late for that.

She could do nothing except wait to learn what he desired, and yet she

knew perfectly well that Don Luis was not coming to the musician, but

to her, and that he was bringing some startling, nay, probably some

terrible news.

She had not met him since she had poured forth the indignation of her

heart. Now he was standing close beside the carriage, but his grave face

looked less stern than it did at that time.

After he had bent his head slightly to her and held out his hand to

Gombert with friendly condescension, he thanked him for the kindness

with which he had made room for his travelling companion, and then,

with quiet courtesy, informed Barbara that he had come on behalf of

his Majesty, who feared that she might not find suitable lodgings in

overcrowded Landshut. The sedan chair stood ready over there by the

hospital.

The longing to escape this fresh outrage from the mighty despot seized

upon Barbara more fiercely than ever, but flight in this crowd was

impossible, and as she met Quijada’s grave glance she forced herself to

keep silence. She could not endure to make the Netherland maestro, who

was kindly disposed toward her, and whom she honoured, a witness of her

humiliation. So she was compelled to reserve what she wished to say to

the Spaniard until later, and therefore only bade her friend farewell

and, scarcely able to control her voice, expressed her regret that she

could not take him to the Lorberers, since his Majesty was making other

arrangements for her.

Another clasp of the Netherlander’s hand, a questioning glance into

the Castilian’s calm face, and she was forced to consider herself the

Emperor Charles’s prisoner.

True, her captor studiously showed her every attention; he helped her

out of the carriage with the utmost care, and then led her through the

moving throng of people to the sedan chair, behind which a mounted groom

was holding Quijada’s noble steed by the bridle.

While Don Luis was helping Barbara into the chair, she asked in a low

tone what she was to think of this act of violence, and where she was

being taken.

“His Majesty’s command,” was the reply. “I think you will be satisfied

with your lodgings here.” The girl shrugged her shoulders indignantly,

and asked if she might only know how it had been discovered that she was

on her way to Landshut; but Don Luis, in a gayer manner than his usual

one, answered, “A little bird sang it to us, and I waited for you just

here because, at the end of the bridge, we are most certain to meet

whoever is obliged to cross either branch of the river.” Then, in a

tone so grave as to exclude any idea of mockery, he added, “You see how

kindly his Majesty has provided for your welfare.”

Closing the sedan chair as he spoke, he rode on before her.

Meanwhile contradictory emotions were seething and surging in Barbara’s

breast.

Where were they taking her?

Did the Emperor intend to make her a prisoner? He certainly possessed

the power. Who would dare to resist him?

She could attain no clearness of thought, for, while giving free course

to the indignation of her soul, she was gazing out at the open sides of

the sedan chair.

Every house, every paving stone here was familiar and awakened some

memory. A crowd of people surrounded her, and among them appeared many

a foreign soldier on foot and on horseback, who would have been well

worthy of an attentive glance. But what did she care for the Italians

in helmets and coats of mail who filled the Altstadt--the main business

street of Landshut--through which she was being carried? She doubtless

cast a glance toward the Town Hall, where her uncle was now devising

means to provide shelter for this legion of soldiers and steeds,

doubtless put her head a little out of the window as she approached the

houses and arcades in the lower stories, and the Lorberer mansion, with

the blunt gable, where she had spent such happy days, appeared. But she

quickly drew it back again; if any of her relatives should see her, what

answer could she make to questions?

But no one perceived her, and who knows whether they would not

have supposed the delicate, troubled face, short locks of hair, and

unnaturally large eyes to be those of another girl who only resembled

the blooming, healthful Barbara of former days?

She also glanced toward the richly decorated portal of St. Martin’s

Church, standing diagonally opposite to the sedan chair, and tried to

look up to the steeple, which was higher than almost any other in the

world.

Even in Ratisbon there was not a handsomer, wider street than this

Altstadt, with its stately gable-roofed houses, and certainly not in

Munich, where her uncle had once taken her, and the Bavarian dukes now

resided.

But where, in Heaven’s name, would she be borne?

The sedan chair was now swaying past the place where the “short cut” for

pedestrians led up to the Trausnitzburg, the proud citadel of the dukes

of Bavarian Landshut. She leaned forward again to look up at it as it

towered far above her head on the opposite side of the way; the powerful

ruler whose captive she was probably lodged there.

But now!

What did this mean?

The sedan chair was set down, and it was just at the place where the

road at her left, leading to the citadel, climbed the height where rose

the proud Trausnitz fortress.

Perhaps she might now find an opportunity to escape.

Barbara hastily opened the door, but one of her attendants closed it

again, and in doing so pressed her gently back into the chair. At the

same time he shook his head, and, while his little black eyes twinkled

slyly at her, his broad, smiling mouth, over which hung a long black

mustache, uttered a good-natured “No, no.”

Now the ascent of the mountain began. A wall bordered the greater

portion of the road, which often led through a ravine overgrown with

brushwood and past bastions and other solid masonry.

The bearers had already mounted to a considerable height, yet there was

no view of the city and the neighbouring country. But even the loveliest

prospect would not have induced Barbara to open her eyes, for the

indignation which overpowered her had increased to fierce rage, blended

with a fear usually alien to her courageous soul.

In the one tower of the citadel there were prisons of tolerably pleasant

aspect, but she had heard whispers of terrible subterranean dungeons

connected with the secret tribunal.

Suppose the Emperor Charles intended to lock her in one of these

dungeons and withdraw her from the eyes of the world? Who could guard

her from this horrible fate? who could prevent him from keeping her

buried alive during her life?

Shuddering, she looked out again. If she was not mistaken, they were

nearing the end of the road, and she would soon learn what was before

her. Perhaps the Emperor Charles himself was awaiting her up there. But

if he asked her whether she intended always to defy him, she would show

him that Barbara Blomberg was not to be intimidated; that she knew how

to defend herself and, if necessary, to suffer; that she would be ready

to risk everything to baffle his design and carry out her own resolve.

Then he should see that nations and kings, nay, even the Holy Father

in Rome-as Charles had once sacrilegiously done--may be vanquished and

humbled; that the hard, precious stone may be crushed and solid metal

melted, but the steadfast will of a woman battling for what she holds

dearest can not be broken.

The sedan chair had already passed through half a dozen citadel gates

and left one solid wall behind it, but now a second rose, with a lofty

door set in its strong masonry.

When Barbara had formerly ascended the Trausnitz, with what pleasure

she had gazed at the deep moat at her left, the pheasants, the stately

peacocks, and other feathered creatures, as well as a whole troop of

lively monkeys; but this time she saw nothing except that the heavy

iron-bound portals of the entrance opened before her, that the

drawbridge, though the sun was close to the western horizon, was still

lowered, and that Quijada stood at the end, motioning to the bearers to

set the sedan chair on the ground.

Now the major-domo opened the door, and this time he was not alone;

Barbara saw behind him a woman whose appearance, spite of her angry

excitement, inspired confidence.

The questions which, without heeding his companion, she now with crimson

cheeks poured upon Don Luis as if fairly frantic, he answered in brief,

businesslike words.

The Emperor Charles wished to place her in safe quarters up here, while

he himself had taken lodgings in the modest house of a Schwaiger--a

small farmer who tilled his own garden and land in the valley below.

For the present, some of the most distinguished officers were here in

the citadel as guests of the Duke of Bavaria. Barbara was to live in the

ladies’ apartments of the fortress, under the care of the worthy woman

at his side.

“His Majesty could not have provided for you more kindly,” he concluded.

“Then may the Virgin preserve every one from such kindness!” she

impetuously exclaimed. “I am dragged to this citadel against my will---”

“And that irritates your strong feeling of independence, which we know,”

replied the Spaniard quietly. “But when you listen to reason, fairest

lady, you will soon be reconciled to this wise regulation of his

Majesty. If not, it will be your own loss. But,” he added in a lowered

tone, “this is no fitting place for a conversation which might easily

degenerate into a quarrel. It can be completed better in your own

apartments.”

While speaking he led the way, and Barbara followed without another

word of remonstrance, for soldiers of all ages and other gentlemen were

walking in the large, beautiful courtyard which she overlooked; a group

of lovers of horseflesh were examining some specially fine steeds,

and from several of the broad windows which surrounded the Trausnitz

courtyard on all sides men’s faces were looking down at her.

This courtyard had always seemed to her a stage specially suitable for

the display of royal magnificence, and yet, in spite of its stately

size, it would be difficult to imagine anything more pleasant, more

thoroughly secluded.

It had formerly witnessed many brilliant knightly games and festal

scenes, but even now it was the favourite gathering place for the

inhabitants of the citadel and the guests of the ducal owner, though the

latter, it is true, had ceased to live here since Landshut had become

the heritage of the Munich branch of the Wittelsbach family, and the

Bavarian dukes resided in Munich, the upper city on the Isar.

Just as Barbara entered the castle the vesper bell rang, and Quijada

paused with bared head, his companions with clasped hands.

The girl prisoner felt little inclination to pray; she was probably

thinking of a dance given here by torchlight, in which, as her uncle’s

guest, she had taken part until morning began to dawn.

While they were walking on again, she also remembered the riding at

the ring in the Trausnitz courtyard, which she had been permitted to

witness.

The varied, magnificent spectacle had made her almost wild with delight.

The dance in this square had been one of her fairest memories. And with

what feelings she looked down into this courtyard again! What could

such an amusement be to her now? Yet it roused a bitter feeling that, in

spite of her youth, such scenes should be closed to her forever.

She silently followed the others into an airy room in the third story,

whose windows afforded a beautiful view extending to the Bohemian

forests.

But Barbara was too weary to bestow more than a fleeting glance upon it.

Paying no heed to the others, she sank down upon the bench near one of

the walls of the room, and while she was still talking with Don Luis

her new companion, of whose name she was still ignorant, brought several

cushions and silently placed them behind her back.

This chamber, Quijada explained, he had selected for her by his

Majesty’s permission. The adjoining room would be occupied by this good

lady--he motioned to his companion--the wife of Herr Adrian Dubois, his

Majesty’s valet. Being a native of Cologne, she understood German, and

had offered to bear her company. If Barbara desired, she could also

summon the garde-robiere Lamperi from Ratisbon to the Trausnitz.

Here she interrupted him with the question how long the Emperor intended

to detain her here.

“As long as it suits his imperial pleasure and the physician deems

advisable,” was the reply. Barbara merely shrugged her shoulders again;

she felt utterly exhausted. But when Quijada, who perceived that she

needed rest, was about to leave her, she remembered the cause of her

drive to Landshut, and asked whether she might speak to her father’s

travelling companion, who could give her information about the health of

the old man who, after the Emperor had sent him out into the world, had

fallen ill in Antwerp.