averted his eyes or if he could not avoid it, coldly returned her
recognition.

This wounded her deeply, and when alone, it often happened that she sunk
into gloomy reverie and, with an aged, weary face, gazed fixedly at the
floor.  But Ulrich's approach quickly cheered and rejuvenated her.

Florette now knew what her son had experienced in life, what had moved
his heart, his soul, and could not contradict him, when he told her that
power was the highest prize of existence.

The Eletto's ambitious mind could not be satisfied with little Aalst.
The mutineers had been outlawed by an edict from Brussels, but the king
had nothing to do with this measure; the shameful proclamation was only
intended to stop the wailing of the Netherlanders.  They would have to
pay dearly for it!  There was a great scheme in view.

The Antwerp of those days was called "as rich as the Indies;" the project
under consideration was the possibility of manoeuvring this abode of
wealth into the hands of the mutineers; the whole Spanish army in the
Netherlands being about to follow the example of the regiments in Aalst.

The mother was the friend and counsellor of the son.  At every step he
took he heard her opinion, and often yielded his own in its favor.  This
interest in the direction of great events occupied the sibyl's versatile
mind.  When, on many occasions, pros and tons were equal in weight, she
brought out the cards, and this oracle generally turned the scale.

No high aim, no desire to accomplish good and great things in wider
spheres, influenced the thoughts and actions of this couple.

What cared they, that the weal and woe of thousands depended on their
decision?  The deadly weapon in their bands was to them only a valuable
utensil in which they delighted, and with which fruits were plucked from
the trees.

Ulrich now saw the fulfilment of Don Juan's words, that power was an
arable field; for there were many full ears in Aalst for them both to
harvest.

Florette still nursed, with maternal care, the soldier's orphan which she
had taken to her son's house; the child, born on a bed of straw--was now
clothed in dainty linen, laces and other beautiful finery.  It was
necessary to her, for she occupied herself with the helpless little
creature when, during the long morning hours of Ulrich's absence,
sorrowful thought troubled her too deeply.

Ulrich often remained absent a long time, far longer than the service
required.  What was he doing?  Visiting a sweetheart?  Why not?  She only
marvelled that the fair women did not come from far and near to see the
handsome man.

Yes, the Eletto had found an old love.  Art, which he had sullenly
forsaken.  News had reached his ears, that an artist had fallen in the
defence of the city.  He went to the dead man's house to see his works,
and how did he find the painter's dwelling!  Windows, furniture were
shattered, the broken doors of the cupboards hung into the rooms on their
bent hinges.  The widow and her children were lying in the studio on a
heap of straw.  This touched his heart, and he gave alms with an open
hand to the sorrowing woman.  A few pictures of the saints, which the
Spaniards had spared, hung on the walls; the easel, paints and brushes
had been left untouched.

A thought, which he instantly carried into execution, entered his mind.
He would paint a new standard!  How his heart beat, when he again stood
before the easel!

He regarded the heretics as heathens.  The Spaniards were shortly going
to fight against them and for the faith.  So be painted the Saviour on
one side of the standard, the Virgin on the other.  The artist's widow
sat to him for the Madonna, a young soldier for the Christ.

No scruples, no consideration for the criticisms of teachers now checked
his creating hand; the power was his, and whatever he did must be right.

He placed upon the Saviour's bowed figure, Costa's head, as he had
painted it in Titian's studio, and the Madonna, in defiance of the stern
judges in Madrid, received the sibyl's face, to please himself and do
honor to his mother.  He made her younger, transformed her white hair to
gleaming golden tresses.  One day he asked Flora to sit still and think
of something very serious; he wanted to sketch her.

She gaily placed herself in position, saying:

"Be quick, for serious thoughts don't last long with me."

A few days later both pictures were finished, and possessed no mean
degree of merit; he rejoiced that after the long interval he could still
accomplish something.  His mother was delighted with her son's
masterpieces, especially the Madonna, for she instantly recognized
herself, and was touched by this proof of his faithful remembrance.  She
had looked exactly like it when a young girl, she said; it was strange
how precisely he had hit the color of her hair; but she was afraid it was
blaspheming to paint a Madonna with her face; she was a poor sinner,
nothing more.

Florette was glad that the work was finished, for restlessness again
began to torture her, and the mornings had been so lonely.  Zorrillo--it
caused her bitter pain--had not cast even a single glance at her, and she
began to miss the society of men, to which she had been accustomed.  But
she never complained, and always showed Ulrich the same cheerful face,
until the latter told her one day that he must leave her for some time.

He had already defeated in little skirmishes small bodies of peasants
and citizens, who had taken the field against the mutineers; now Colonel
Romero called upon him to help oppose a large army of patriots, who had
assembled between Lowen and Tirlemont, under the command of the noble
Sieur de Floyon.  It was said to consist Of students and other rebellious
brawlers, and so it proved;  but the "rebels" were the flower of the
youth of the shamefully-oppressed nation, noble souls, who found it
unbearable to see their native land enslaved by mutinous hordes.

Ulrich's parting with his mother was not a hard one.  He felt sure of
victory and of returning home, but the excitable woman burst into tears
as she bade him farewell.

The Eletto took the field with a large body of troops; the majority of
the mutineers, with them.  Captain and Quartermaster Zorrillo, remained
behind to hold the citizens in check.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

A considerable, but hastily-collected army of patriots had been utterly
routed at Tisnacq by a small force of disciplined Spaniards.

Ulrich had assisted his countrymen to gain the speedy victory, and had
been greeted by his old colonel, the brave Romero, the bold cavalry-
commander, Mendoza, and other distinguished officers as one of
themselves.  Since these aristocrats had become mutineers, the Eletto
was a brother, and they did not disdain to secure his cooperation in the
attack they were planning upon Antwerp.

He had shown great courage under fire, and wherever he appeared, his
countrymen held out their hands to him, vowing obedience and loyalty unto
death.

Ulrich felt as if he were walking on air, mere existence was a joy to
him.  No prince could revel in the blissful consciousness of increasing
power, more fully than he.  The evening after the decision he had
attended a splendid banquet with Romero, Vargas, Mendoza, Tassis, and the
next morning the prisoners, who had fallen into the hands of his men,
were brought before him.

He had left the examination of the students, citizens' sons, and peasants
to his lieutenant; but there were also three noblemen, from whom large
ransoms could be obtained.  The two older ones had granted what he asked
and been led away; the third, a tall man in knightly armor, was left
last.

Ulrich had personally encountered the latter.  The prisoner, mounted upon
a tall steed, had pressed him very closely; nay, the Eletto's victory was
not decided, until a musket-shot had stretched the other's horse on the
ground.

The knight now carried his arm in a sling.  In the centre of his coat of
mail and on the shoulder-pieces of his armor, the ensigns armorial of a
noble family were embossed.

"You were dragged out from under your horse," said the Eletto to the
knight.  "You wield an excellent blade."

He had spoken in Spanish, but the other shrugged his shoulders, and
answered in the German language "I don't understand Spanish."

"Are you a German?"  Ulrich now asked in his native tongue.  "How do you
happen to be among the Netherland rebels?"

The nobleman looked at the Eletto in surprise.  But the latter, giving
him no time for reflection, continued "I understand German; your answer?"

"I had business in Antwerp?"

"What business?"

"That is my affair."

"Very well.  Then we will drop courtesy and adopt a different tone."

"Nay, I am the vanquished party, and will answer you."

"Well then?"

"I had stuffs to buy."

"Are you a merchant?"

The knight shook his head and answered, smiling: "We have rebuilt our
castle since the fire."

"And now you need hangings and artistic stuff.  Did you expect to capture
them from us?"

"Scarcely, sir."

"Then what brought you among our enemies?"

"Baron Floyon belongs to my mother's family.  He marched against you, and
as I approved his cause...."

"And pillage pleases you, you felt disposed to break a lance."

"Quite right."

"And you have done your cause no harm.  Where do you live?"

"Surely you know: in Germany."

"Germany is a very large country."

"In the Black Forest in Swabia."

"And your name?"

The prisoner made no reply; but Ulrich fixed his eyes upon the coat of
arms on the knight's armor, looked at him more steadily, and a strange
smile hovered around his lips as he approached him, saying in an altered
tone: "You think the Navarrete will demand from Count von Frohlinger a
ransom as large as his fields and forests?"

"You know me?"

"Perhaps so, Count Lips."

"By Heavens!"

"Ah, ha, you went from the monastery to the field."

"From the monastery?  How do you know that, sir?"

"We are old acquaintances, Count Lips.  Look me in the eyes."

The other gazed keenly at the Eletto, shook his head, and said: "You have
not seemed a total stranger to me from the first; but I never was in
Spain."

"But I have been in Swabia, and at that time you did me a kindness.
Would your ransom be large enough to cover the cost of a broken church
window?"

The count opened his eyes in amazement and a bright smile flashed over
his face as, clapping his hands, he exclaimed with sincere delight:

"You, you--you are Ulrich!  I'll be damned, if I'm mistaken!  But who the
devil would discover a child of the Black Forest in the Spanish Eletto?"

"That I am one, must remain a secret between us for the present,"
exclaimed Ulrich, extending his hand to the count.  "Keep silence, and
you will be free--the window will cover the ransom!"

"Holy Virgin!  If all the windows in the monastery were as dear, the
monks might grow fat!" cried the count.  "A Swabian heart remains half
Swabian, even when it beats under a Spanish doublet.  Its luck, Turk's
luck, that I followed Floyon;--and your old father, Adam?  And Ruth--what
a pleasure!"

"You ought to know....my father is dead, died long, long ago!" said
Ulrich, lowering his eyes.

"Dead!" exclaimed the other.  "And long ago?  I saw him at the anvil
three weeks since."

"My father?  At the anvil?  And Ruth?...."  stammered Ulrich, gazing at
the other with a pallid, questioning face.

"They are alive, certainly they are alive!  I met him again in Antwerp.
No one else can make you such armor.  The devil is in it, if you hav'nt
heard of the Swabian armorer."

"The Swabian--the Swabian--is he my father?"

"Your own father.  How long ago is it?  Thirteen years, for I was then
sixteen.  That was the last time I saw him, and yet I recognized him at
the first glance.  True, I shall never forget the hour, when the dumb
woman drew the arrow from the Jew's breast.  The scene I witnessed that
day in the forest still rises before my eyes, as if it were happening
now."

"He lives, they did not kill him!" exclaimed the Eletto, now first
beginning to rejoice over the surprising news.  "Lips, man--Philipp!
I have found my mother again, and now my father too.  Wait, wait!  I'll
speak to the lieutenant, he must take my place, and you and I will ride
to Lier; there you will tell me the whole story.  Holy Virgin! thanks, a
thousand thanks!  I shall see my father again, my father!"

It was past midnight, but the schoolmates were still sitting over their
wine in a private room in the Lion at Lier.  The Eletto had not grown
weary of questioning, and Count Philipp willingly answered.

Ulrich now knew what death the doctor had met, and that his father had
gone to Antwerp and lived there as an armorer for twelve years.  The
Jew's dumb wife had died of grief on the journey, but Ruth was living
with the old man and kept house for him.  Navarrete had often heard the
Swabian and his work praised, and wore a corselet from his workshop.

The count could tell him a great deal about Ruth.  He acknowledged that
he had not sought Adam the Swabian for weapons, but on account of his
beautiful daughter.  The girl was slender as a fir-tree!  And her face!
once seen could never be forgotten.  So might have looked the beautiful
Judith, who slew Holophernes, or Queen Zenobia, or chaste Lucretia of
Rome!  She was now past twenty and in the bloom of her beauty, but cold
as glass; and though she liked him on account of his old friendship for
Ulrich and the affair in the forest, he was only permitted to look at,
not touch her.  She would rejoice when she heard that Ulrich was still
alive, and what he had become.  And the smith, the smith!  Nay, he would
not go home now, but back to Antwerp to be Ulrich's messenger!  But now
he too would like to relate his own experiences.

He did so, but in a rapid, superficial way, for the Eletto constantly
reverted to old days and his father.  Every person whom they had both
known was enquired for.

Old Count Frohlinger was still alive, but suffered a great deal from
gout and the capricious young wife he had married in his old age.
Hangemarx had grown melancholy and, after all, ended his life by the
rope, though by his own hand.  Dark-skinned Xaver had entered the
priesthood and was living in Rome in high esteem, as a member of a
Spanish order.  The abbot still presided over the monastery and had a
great deal of time for his studies; for the school had been broken up
and, as part of the property of the monastery had been confiscated, the
number of monks had diminished.  The magistrate had been falsely accused
of embezzling minors' money, remained in prison for a year and, after his
liberation, died of a liver complaint.

Morning was dawning when the friends separated.  Count Philipp undertook
to tell Ruth that Ulrich had found his mother again.  She was to persuade
the smith to forgive his wife, with whose praises her son's lips were
overflowing.

At his departure Philipp tried to induce the Eletto to change his course
betimes, for he was following a dangerous path; but Ulrich laughed in his
face, exclaiming: "You know I have found the right word, and shall use it
to the end.  You were born to power in a small way; I have won mine
myself, and shall not rest until I am permitted to exercise it on a great
scale, nay, the grandest.  If aught on earth affords a taste of heavenly
joy, it is power!"

In the camp the Eletto found the troops from Aalst prepared for
departure, and as he rode along the road saw in imagination, sometimes
his parents, his parents in a new and happy union, sometimes Ruth in the
full splendor of her majestic beauty.  He remembered how proudly he had
watched his father and mother, when they went to church together on
Sunday, how he had carried Ruth in his arms on their flight; and now he
was to see and experience all this again.

He gave his men only a short rest, for he longed to reach his mother.
It was a glorious return home, to bring such tidings!  How beautiful and
charming he found life; how greatly he praised his destiny!

The sun was setting behind pleasant Aalst as he approached, and the sky
looked as if it was strewn with roses.

"Beautiful, beautiful!"  he murmured, pointing out to his lieutenant the
brilliant hues in the western horizon.

A messenger hastened on in advance, the thunder of artillery and fanfare
of music greeted the victors, as they marched through the gate.  Ulrich
sprang from his horse in front of the guildhall and was received by the
captain, who had commanded during his absence.

The Eletto hastily described the course of the brilliant, victorious
march, and then asked what had happened.

The captain lowered his eyes in embarrassment, saying, in a low tone:
"Nothing of great importance; but day before yesterday a wicked deed was
committed, which will vex you.  The woman you love, the camp sibyl...."

"Who?  What?  What do you mean?"

"She went to Zorrillo, and he--you must not be startled--he stabbed her."

Ulrich staggered back, repeating, in a hollow tone "Stabbed!"  Then
seizing the other by the shoulder, he shrieked: "Stabbed!  That means
murdered-killed!"

"He thrust his dagger into her heart, she must have died as quickly as if
struck by lightning.  Then Zorrillo went away, God knows where.  Who
could suspect, that the quiet man...."

"You let him escape, helped the murderer get off, you dogs!" raved the
wretched man.  "We will speak of this again.  Where is she, where is her
body?"

The captain shrugged his shoulders, saying, in a soothing tone: "Calm
yourself, Navarrete!  We too grieve for the sibyl; many in the camp will
miss her.  As for Zorrillo, he had the password, and could go through the
gate at any hour.  The body is still lying in his quarters."

"Indeed!"  faltered the Eletto.  Then calming himself, he said,
mournfully: "I wish to see her."

The captain walked silently by his side and opened the murderer's
dwelling.

There, on a bed of pine-shavings, in a rude coffin made of rough planks,
lay the woman who had given him birth, deserted him, and yet who so
tenderly loved him.  A poor soldier's wife, to whom she had been kind,
was watching beside the corpse, at whose head a singly brand burned with
a smoky, yellow light.  The little white dog had found its way to her,
and was snuffing the floor, still red with its mistress's blood.

Ulrich snatched the brand from the bracket, and threw the light on the
dead woman's face.  His tear-dimmed eyes sought his mother's features,
but only rested on them a moment--then he shuddered, turned away, and
giving the torch to his companion, said, softly: "Cover her head."

The soldier's wife spread her coarse apron over the face, which-had
smiled so sweetly: but Ulrich threw himself on his knees beside the
coffin, buried his face, and remained in this attitude for many minutes.

At last he slowly rose, rubbed his eyes as if waking from some confused
dream, drew himself up proudly, and scanned the place with searching
eyes.

He was the Eletto, and thus men honored the woman who was dear to him!

His mother lay in a wretched pauper's coffin, a ragged camp-follower
watched beside her--no candles burned at her head, no priest prayed for
the salvation of her soul!

Grief was raging madly in his breast, now indignation joined this gloomy
guest; giving vent to his passionate emotion, Ulrich wildly exclaimed:

"Look here, captain!  This corpse, this woman--proclaim it to every one
--the sibyl was my mother yes, yes, my own mother!  I demand respect for
her, the same respect that is shown myself!  Must I compel men to render
her fitting honor?  Here, bring torches.  Prepare the catafalque in St.
Martin's church, and place it before the altar!  Put candles around it,
as many as can be found!  It is still early!  Lieutenant!  I am glad you
are there!  Rouse the cathedral priests and go to the bishop.  I command
a solemn requiem for my mother!  Everything is to be arranged precisely
as it was at the funeral of the Duchess of Aerschot!  Let trumpets give
the signal for assembling.  Order the bells to be rung!  In an hour all
must be ready at St. Martin's cathedral!  Bring torches here, I say!
Have I the right to command--yes or no?  A large oak coffin was standing
at the joiner's close by.  Bring it here, here; I need a better death-
couch for my mother.  You poor, dear woman, how you loved flowers, and no
one has brought you even one!  Captain Ortis, I have issued my commands!
Everything must be done, when I return;--Lieutenant, you have your
orders!"

He rushed from the death-chamber to the sitting-room in his own house,
and hastily tore stalks and blossoms from the plants.  The maid-servants
watched him timidly, and he harshly ordered them to collect what he had
gathered and take them to the house of death.

His orders were obeyed, and when he next appeared at Zorrillo's quarters,
the soldiers, who had assembled there in throngs, parted to make way for
him.

He beckoned to them, and while he went from one to another, saying: "The
sibyl was my mother--Zorrillo has murdered my mother," the coffin was
borne into the house.

In the vestibule, he leaned his head against the wall, moaning and
sighing, until Florette was laid in her last bed, and a soldier put his
hand on his shoulder.  Then Ulrich strewed flowers over the corpse, and
the joiner came to nail up the coffin.  The blows of the hammer actually
hurt him, it seemed as if each one fell upon his own heart.

The funeral procession passed through the ranks of soldiers, who filled
the street.  Several officers came to meet it, and Captain Ortis,
approaching close to the Eletto, said: "The bishop refuses the catafalque
and the solemn requiem you requested.  Your mother died in sin, without
the sacrament.  He will grant as many masses for the repose of her soul
as you desire, but such high honors...."

"He refuses them to us?"

"Not to us, to the sibyl."

"She was my mother, your Eletto's mother.  To the cathedral, forward!"

"It is closed, and will remain so to-day, for the bishop...."

"Then burst the doors!  We'll show them who has the power here."

"Are you out of your senses?  The Holy Church!"

"Forward, I say!  Let him who is no cowardly wight, follow me!"

Ulrich drew the commander's baton from his belt and rushed forward,
as if he were leading a storming-party; but Ortis cried: "We will not
fight against St. Martin!" and a murmur of applause greeted him.

Ulrich checked his pace, and gnashing his teeth, exclaimed: "Will not?
Will not?"  Then gazing around the circle of comrades, who surrounded him
on all sides, he asked: "Has no one courage to help me to my rights?
Ortis, de Vego, Diego, will you follow me, yes or no?"

"No, not against the Church!"

"Then I command you," shouted the Eletto, furiously.  "Obey, Lieutenant
de Vega, forward with your company, and burst the cathedral doors."

But no one obeyed, and Ortis ordered: "Back, every man of you!  Saint
Martin is my patron saint; let all who value their souls refuse to attack
the church and defend it with me."

The blood rushed to Ulrich's brain, and incapable of longer self-control,
he threw his baton into the ranks of the mutineers, shrieking: "I hurl it
at your feet; whoever picks it up can keep it!"

The  soldiers hesitated;  but  Ortis  repeated  his "Back!"  Other
officers gave the same order, and their men obeyed.  The street grew
empty, and the Eletto's mother was only followed by a few of her son's
friends; no priest led the procession.  In the cemetery Ulrich threw
three handfuls of earth into the open grave, then with drooping head
returned home.

How dreary, how desolate the bright, flower-decked room seemed now, for
the first time the Eletto felt really deserted.  No tears came to relieve
his grief, for the insult offered him that day aroused his wrath, and he
cherished it as if it were a consolation.

He had thrown power aside with the staff of command.  Power!  It too was
potter's trash, which a stone might shatter, a flower in full bloom,
whose leaves drop apart if touched by the finger!  It was no noble metal,
only yellow mica!

The knocker on the door never stopped rapping.  One officer after another
came to soothe him, but he would not even admit his lieutenant.

He rejoiced over his hasty deed.  Fortune, he thought, cannot be escaped,
art cannot be thrown aside; fame may be trampled under foot, yet still
pursue us.

Power has this advantage over all three, it can be flung off like a worn-
out doublet.  Let it fly!  Had he owed it the happiness of the last few
weeks?  No, no!  He would have been happy with his mother in a poor,
plain house, without the office of Eletto, without flowers, horses or
servants.  It was to her, not to power, that he was indebted for every
blissful hour, and now that she had gone, how desolate was the void in
his heart!

Suddenly the recollection of his father and Ruth illumined his misery
like a sunbeam.  The game of Eletto was now over, he would go to Antwerp
the next day.

Why had fate snatched his mother from him just now, why did it deny him
the happiness of seeing his parents united?  His father--she had sorely
wronged him, but for what will not death atone?  He must take him some
remembrance of her, and went to her room to look through her chest.  But
it no longer stood in the old place--the owner of the house, a rich
matron, who had been compelled to occupy an attic-room, while strangers
were quartered in her residence, had taken charge of the pale orphan and
the boxes after Florette's death.

The good Netherland dame provided for the adopted child and the property
of her enemy, the man whose soldiers had pillaged her brothers and
cousins.  The death of the woman below had moved her deeply, for the
wonderful charm of Florette's manner had won her also.

Towards midnight Ulrich took the lamp and went upstairs.  He had long
since forgotten to spare others, by denying himself a wish.

The knocking at the door and the passing to and fro in the entry had kept
Frau Geel awake.  When she heard the Eletto's heavy step, she sprang up
from her spinning-wheel in alarm, and the maid-servant, half roused from
sleep, threw herself on her knees.

"Frau Geel!"  called a voice outside.

She recognized Navarrete's tones, opened the door, and asked what he
desired.

"It was his mother," thought the old lady as he threw clothes, linen and
many a trifle on the floor.  "It was his mother.  Perhaps he wants her
rosary or prayer book.  He is her son!  They looked like a happy couple
when they were together.  A wild soldier, but he isn't a wicked man yet."

While he searched she held the light for him, shaking her head over the
disorder among the articles where he rummaged.

Ulrich had now reached the bottom of the chest.  Here he found a valuable
necklace, booty which Zorrillo had given his companion for use in case of
need.  This should be Ruth's.  Close beside it lay a small package, tied
with rose-pink ribbon, containing a tiny infant's shirt, a gay doll, and
a slender gold circlet; her wedding-ring!  The date showed that it had
been given to her by his father, and the shirt and doll were mementos of
him, her darling--of himself.

He gazed at them, changing them from one hand to the other, till suddenly
his heart overflowed, and without heeding Frau Geel, who was watching
him, he wept softly, exclaiming: "Mother, dear mother!"

A light hand touched his shoulder, and a woman's kind voice said: "Poor
fellow, poor fellow!  Yes, she was a dear little thing, and a mother, a
mother--that is enough!"

The Eletto nodded assent with tearful eyes, and when she again gently
repeated in a tone of sincere sympathy, her "poor fellow!"  it sounded
sweeter, than the loudest homage that had ever been offered to his fame
and power.




CHAPTER XXIX.

The next morning while Ulrich was packing his luggage, assisted by his
servant, the sound of drums and fifes, bursts of military music and loud
cheers were heard in the street, and going to the window, he saw the
whole body of mutineers drawn up in the best order.

The companies stood in close ranks before his house, impetuous shouts and
bursts of music made the windows rattle, and now the officers pressed
into his room, holding out their swords, vowing fealty unto death, and
entreating him to remain their commander.

He now perceived, that power cannot be thrown aside like a worthless
thing.  His tortured heart was stirred with deep emotion, and the
drooping wings of ambition unfolded with fresh energy.  He reproached,
raged, but yielded; and when Ortis on his knees, offered him the
commander's baton, he accepted it.

Ulrich was again Eletto, but this need not prevent his seeing his father
and Ruth once more, so he declared that he would retain his office, but
should be obliged to ride to Antwerp that day, secretly inform the
officers of the conspiracy against the city, and the necessity of
negotiating with the commandant, that their share of the rich prize might
not be lost.

What many had suspected and hoped was now to become reality.  Their
Eletto was no idle man!  When Navarrete appeared at noon in front of the
troops with his own work, the standard, in his hand, he was received with
shouts of joy, and no one murmured, though many recognized in the
Madonna's countenance the features of the murdered sibyl.

Two days later Ulrich, full of eager expectation, rode into Antwerp,
carrying in his portmanteau the mementos he had taken from his mother's
chest, while in imagination he beheld his father's face, the smithy at
Richtberg, the green forest, the mountains of his home, the Costas'
house, and his little playfellow.  Would he really be permitted to lean
on his father's broad breast once more?

And Ruth, Ruth!  Did she still care for him, had Philipp described her
correctly?

He went to the count without delay, and found him at home.  Philipp
received him cordially, yet with evident timidity and embarrassment.
Ulrich too was grave, for he had to inform his companion of his mother's