death.
"So that is settled," said the count.  "Your father is a gnarled old
tree, a real obstinate Swabian.  It's not his way to forgive and forget."

"And did he know that my mother was so near to him, that she was in
Aalst."

"All, all!"

"He will forgive the dead.  Surely, surely he will, if I beseech him,
when we are united, if I tell him...."

"Poor fellow!  You think all this is so easy.--It is long since I have
had so hard a task, yet I must speak plainly.  He will have nothing to
do with you, either."

"Nothing to do with me?"  cried Ulrich.

"Is he out of his senses?  What sin have I committed, what does he...."

"He knows that you are Navarrete, the Eletto of Herenthals, the conqueror
of Aalst, and therefore...."

"Therefore?"

"Why of course.  You see, Ulrich, when a man becomes famous like you, he
is known for a long distance, everything he does makes a great hue and
cry, and echo repeats it in every alley."

"To my honor before God and man."

"Before God?  Perhaps so; certainly before the Spaniards.  As for me
--I was with the squadron myself, I call you a brave soldier; but--no
offence--you have behaved ill in this country.  The Netherlanders are
human beings too."

"They are rebels, recreant heretics."

"Take care, or you will revile your own father.  His faith has been
shaken.  A preacher, whom he met on his flight here, in some tavern, led
him astray by inducing him to read the bible.  Many things the Church
condemns are sacred to him.  He thinks the Netherlanders a free, noble
nation.  Your King Philip he considers a tyrant, oppressor, and ruthless
destroyer.  You who have served him and Alba--are in his eyes; but I will
not wound you...."

"What are we, I will hear."

"No, no, it would do no good.  In short, to Adam the Spanish army is a
bloody pest, nothing more."

"There never were braver soldiers."

"Very true; but every defeat, all the blood you have shed, has angered
him and this nation, and wrath, which daily receives fresh food and to
which men become accustomed, at last turns to hate.  All great crimes
committed in this war are associated with Alba's name, many smaller ones
with yours, and so your father...."

"Then we will teach him a better opinion!  I return to him an honest
soldier, the commander of thousands of men!  To see him once more, only
to see him!  A son remains a son!  I learned that from my mother.  We
were rivals and enemies, when I met her!  And then, then--alas, that is
all over!  Now I wish to find in my father what I have lost; will you go
to the smithy with me?"

"No, Ulrich, no.  I have said everything to your father that can be urged
in your defence, but he is so devoured with rage...."

"Santiago!" exclaimed the  Eletto, bursting into sudden fury, "I need no
advocate!  If the old man knows what share I have taken in this war, so
much the better.  I'll fill up the gaps myself.  I have been  wherever
the  fight  raged  hottest!  'Sdeath! that is my pride!  I am no longer a
boy and have fought my way through life without father or mother.  What I
am, I have made myself, and can defend with honor, even to the old man.
He carries heavy guns, I know; but I am not accustomed to shoot with
feather balls!"

"Ulrich,  Ulrich!  He is an old man, and your father!"

"I will remember that, as soon as he calls me his son."

One of the count's servants showed Ulrich the way to the smith's house.

Adam had entirely given up the business of horseshoeing, for nothing was
to be seen in the ground floor of the high, narrow house, except the
large door, and a window on each side.  Behind the closed one at the
right were several pieces of armor, beautifully embossed, and some
artistically-wrought iron articles.  The left-hand one was partly open,
granting entrance to the autumn sunshine.  Ulrich dismissed the servant,
took the mementos of his mother in his hand, and listened to the hammer-
strokes, that echoed from within.

The familiar sound recalled pleasant memories of his childhood and cooled
his hot blood.  Count Philipp was right.  His father was an old man, and
entitled to demand respect from his son.  He must endure from him what he
would tolerate from no one else.  Nay, he again felt that it was a great
happiness to be near the beloved one, from whom he had so long been
parted; whatever separated him from his old father, must surely vanish
into nothing, as soon as they looked into each other's eyes.

What a master in his trade, his father still was!  No one else would have
found it so easy to forge the steel coat of mail with the Medusa head in
the centre.  He was not working alone here as he did at Richtberg; for
Ulrich heard more than one hammer striking iron in the workshop.

Before touching the knocker, he looked into the open window.

A woman's tall figure was standing at the desk.  Her back was turned,
and he saw only the round outline of the head, the long black braids,
the plain dress, bordered with velvet, and the lace in the neck. An
elderly man in the costume of a merchant was just holding out his hand
in farewell, and he heard him say: "You've bought too cheap again, far
too cheap, Jungfer Ruth."

"Just a fair price," she answered quietly.  "You will have a good
profit, and we can afford to pay it.  I shall expect the iron day after
to-morrow."

"It will be delivered before noon.  Master Adam has a treasure in you,
dear Jungfer.  If my son were alive, I know where he would seek a wife.
Wilhelm Ykens has told me of his troubles; he is a skilful goldsmith.
Why do you give the poor fellow no hope?  Consider!  You are past twenty,
and every year it grows harder to say yes to a lover."

"Nothing suits me better, than to stay with father," she answered gaily.
"He can't do without me, you know, nor I without him.  I have no dislike
to Wilhelm, but it seems very easy to live without him.  Farewell, Father
Keulitz."

Ulrich withdrew from the window, until the merchant had vanished down a
side street; then he again glanced into the narrow room.  Ruth was now
seated at the desk, but instead of looking over the open account book,
her eyes were gazing dreamily into vacancy, and the Eletto now saw her
beautiful, calm, noble face.  He did not disturb her, for it seemed as if
he could never weary of comparing her features with the fadeless image
his memory had treasured during all the vicissitudes of life.

Never, not even in Italy, had he beheld a nobler countenance.  Philipp
was right.  There was something royal in her bearing.  This was the wife
of his dreams, the proud woman, with whom the Eletto desired to share
power and grandeur.  And he had already held her once in his arms!  It
seemed as if it were only yesterday.  His heart throbbed higher and
higher.  As she now rose and thoughtfully approached the window, he could
no longer contain himself, and exclaimed in a low tone: "Ruth, Ruth!  Do
you know me, girl?  It is I--Ulrich!"

She shrank back, putting out he1 hands with a repellent gesture; but only
for a moment.  Then, struggling to maintain her composure, she joyously
uttered his name, and as he rushed into the room, cried "Ulrich!"
"Ulrich!" and no longer able to control her feelings, suffered him to
clasp her to his heart.

She had daily expected him with ardent longing, yet secret dread: for
he was the fierce Eletto, the commander of the insurgents, the bloody foe
of the brave nation she loved.  But at sight of his face all, all was
forgotten, and she felt nothing but the bliss of being reunited to him
whom she had never, never forgotten, the joy of seeing, feeling that he
loved her.

His heart too was overflowing with passionate delight.  Faltering tender
words, he drew her head to his breast, then raised it to press his mouth
to her pure lips.  But her intoxication of joy passed away--and before he
could prevent it, she had escaped from his arms, saying sternly: "Not
that, not that....  Many a crime lies between us and you."

"No, no!" he eagerly exclaimed.  "Are you not near me?  Your heart and
mine have belonged to each other since that day in the snow.  If my
father is angry because I serve other masters than his, you, yes you,
must reconcile us again.  I could stay in Aalst no longer."

"With the mutineers?" she asked sadly.  "Ulrich, Ulrich, that you should
return to us thus!"

He again seized her hand, and when she tried to withdraw it, only smiled,
saying with the confidence of a man, who is sure of his cause:

"Cast aside this foolish reserve.  To-morrow you will freely give me, not
only one hand, but both.  I am not so bad as you think.  The fortune of
war flung me under the Spanish flag, and 'whose bread I eat, his song I
sing,' says the soldier.  What would you have?  I served with honor, and
have done some doughty deeds; let that content you."

This angered Ruth, who resolutely exclaimed:

"No, a thousand times no!  You are the Eletto of Aalst, the pillager of
cities, and this cannot be swept aside as easily as the dust from the
floor.  I....  I am only a feeble girl;--but father, he will never give
his hand to the blood-stained man in Spanish garb!  I know him, I know
it."

Ulrich's breath came quicker; but he repressed the angry emotion and
replied, first reproachfully, then beseechingly:

"You are the old man's echo.  What does he know of military honor and
warlike fame; but you, Ruth, must understand me.  Do you still remember
our sport with the "word," the great word that accomplished everything?
I have found it; and you shall enjoy with me what it procures.  First
help me appease my father; I shall succeed, if you aid me.  It will
doubtless be a hard task.  He could not bring himself to forgive his poor
wife--Count Philipp says so;--but now!  You see, Ruth, my mother died a
few days ago; she was a dear, loving woman and might have deserved a
better fate.

"I am alone again now, and long for love--so ardently, so sincerely, more
than I can tell you.  Where shall I find it, if not with you and my own
father?  You have always cared for me; you betray it, and after all you
know I am not a bad man, do you not?  Be content with my love and take me
to my father, yourself.  Help me persuade him to listen to me.  I have
something here which you can give him from me; you will see that it will
soften his heart!"

"Then give it to me," replied Ruth, "but whatever it may be--believe me,
Ulrich, so long as you command the Spanish mutineers, he will remain
hard, hard as his own iron!"

"Spaniards!  Mutineers!  Nonsense!  Whoever wishes to love, can love; the
rest may be settled afterwards.  You don't know how high my heart throbs,
now that I am near you, now that I see and hear you.  You are my good
angel and must remain so, now look here.  This is my mother's legacy.
This little shirt I once wore, when I was a tiny thing, the gay doll was
my plaything, and this gold hoop is the wedding-ring my father gave his
bride at the altar--she kept all these things to the last, and carried
them like holy relics from land to land, from camp to camp.  Will you
take these mementos to him?"

She nodded silently.

"Now comes the best thing.  Have you ever seen more beautiful
workmanship?  You must wear this necklace, Ruth, as my first gift."

He held up the costly ornament, but she shrank back, asking bitterly

"Captured booty?"

"In honorable war," he answered, proudly, approaching to fasten the
jewels round her neck with his own hands; but she pushed him back,
snatched the ornament, and hurled it on the floor, exclaiming angrily:

"I loathe the stolen thing.  Pick it up.  It may suit the camp-
followers."

This destroyed his self-control, and seizing both her arms in an iron
grasp, he muttered through his clenched teeth:

"That is an insult to my mother; take it back."  But Ruth heard and saw
nothing; full of indignation she only felt that violence was being done
her, and vainly struggled against the irresistible strength, which held
her fast.

Meantime the door had opened wide, but neither noticed it until a man's
deep voice loudly and wrathfully exclaimed:

"Back, you scoundrel!  Come here, Ruth.  This is the way the assassin
greets his family; begone, begone!  you disgrace of my house!"

Adam had uttered the words, and now drew the hammer from the belt of his
leather apron.

Ulrich gazed mutely into his face.  There stood his father, strong,
gigantic, as he had looked thirteen years before.  His head was a little
bowed, his beard longer and whiter, his eyebrows were more bushy and his
expression had grown more gloomy; otherwise he was wholly unchanged in
every feature.

The son's eyes rested on the smith as if spellbound.  It seemed as if
some malicious fate had drawn him into a snare.

He could say nothing except, "father, father," and the smith found no
other answer than the harsh "begone!"

Ruth approached the armorer, clung to his side, and pleaded:

"Hear him, don't send him away so; he is your child, and if anger just
now overpowered him...."

"Spanish custom--to abuse women!"  cried Adam.  "I have no son Navarrete,
or whatever the murderous monster calls himself.  I am a burgher, and
have no son, who struts about in the stolen clothes of noblemen; as to
this man and his assassins, I hate them, hate them all.  Your foot
defiles my house.  Out with you, knave, or I will use my hammer."

Ulrich again exclaimed, "father, father!"  Then, regaining his self-
control by a violent effort, he gasped:

"Father, I came to you in good will, in love.  I am an honest soldier and
if any one but you--'Sdeath--if any other had dared to offer me this...."

"Murder the dog, you would have said," interrupted the smith.  "We know
the Spanish blessing: a sandre, a carne!--[Blood, murder.]--Thanks for
your forbearance.  There is the door.  Another word, and I can restrain
myself no longer."

Ruth had clung firmly to the smith, and motioned Ulrich to go.  The
Eletto groaned aloud, struck his forehead with his clenched fist, and
rushed into the open air.

As soon as Adam was alone with Ruth she caught his hand, exclaiming
beseechingly:

"Father, father, he is your own son!  Love your enemies, the Saviour
commanded; and you...."

"And I hate him," said the smith, curtly and resolutely.  "Did he hurt
you?"

"Your hate hurts me ten times as much!  You judge without examining; yes,
father, you do!  When he assaulted me, he was in the right.  He thought I
had insulted his mother."

Adam shrugged his shoulders, and she continued "The poor woman is dead.
Ulrich brought you yonder ring; she never parted with it."

The armorer started, seized the golden hoop, looked for the date inside,
and when he had found it, clasped the ring in his hands and pressed them
silently to his temples.  He stood in this attitude a short time, then
let his arms fall, and said softly:

"The dead must be forgiven...."

"And the living, father?  You have punished him terribly, and he is not
a wicked man, no, indeed he is not!  If he comes back again, father?"

"My apprentices shall show the Spanish mutineer the door," cried the old
man in a harsh, stern tone; "to the burgher's repentant son my house will
be always open."

Meantime the Eletto wandered from one street to another.  He felt
bewildered, disgraced.

It was not grief--no quiet heartache that disturbed--but a confused
blending of wrath and sorrow.  He did not wish to appear before the
friend of his youth, and even avoided Hans Eitelfritz, who came towards
him.  He was blind to the gay, joyous bustle of the capital; life seemed
grey and hollow.  His intention of communicating with the commandant of
the citadel remained unexecuted; for he thought of nothing but his
father's anger, of Ruth, his own shame and misery.

He could not leave so.

His father must, yes, he must hear him, and when it grew dusk, he again
sought the house to which he belonged, and from which he had been so
cruelly expelled.

The door was locked.  In reply to his knock, a man's unfamiliar voice
asked who he was, and what he wanted.

He asked to speak with Adam, and called himself Ulrich.

After waiting a long time he heard a door torn open, and the smith
angrily exclaim:

"To your spinning-wheel!  Whoever clings to him so long as he wears the
Spanish dress, means evil to him as well as to me."

"But hear him!  You must hear him, father!"  cried Ruth.

The door closed, heavy steps approached the door of the house; it opened,
and again Adam confronted his son.

"What do you want?"  he asked harshly.

"To speak to you, to tell you that you did wrong to insult me unheard."

"Are you still the Eletto?  Answer!"

"I am!"

"And intend to remain so?"

"Que como--puede ser--" faltered Ulrich, who confused by the question,
had strayed into the language in which he had been long accustomed to
think.  But scarcely had the smith distinguished the foreign words, when
fresh anger seized him.

"Then go to perdition with your Spaniards!"  was the furious answer.

The door slammed so that the house shook, and by degrees the smith's
heavy tread died away in the vestibule.

"All over, all over!"  murmured the rejected son.  Then calming himself,
he clenched his fist and muttered through his set teeth: "There shall be
no lack of ruin; whoever it befalls, can bear it."

While walking through the streets and across the squares, he devised plan
after plan, imagining what must come.  Sword in hand he would burst the
old man's door, and the only booty he asked for himself should be Ruth,
for whom he longed, who in spite of everything loved him, who had
belonged to him from her childhood.

The next morning he negotiated cleverly and boldly with the commandant
of the Spanish forces in the citadel.  The fate of the city was sealed!
and when he again crossed the great square and saw the city-hall with its
proud, gable-crowned central building, and the shops in the lower floor
crammed with wares, he laughed savagely.

Hans Eitelfritz had seen him in the distance, and shouted:

"A pretty little house, three stories high.  And how the broad windows,
between the pillars in the side wings, glitter!"

Then he lowered his voice, for the square was swarming with men, carts
and horses, and continued:

"Look closer and choose your quarters.  Come with me!  I'll show you
where the best things we need can be found.  Haven't we bled often enough
for the pepper-sacks?  Now it will be our turn to fleece them.  The
castles here, with the gingerbread work on the gables, are the
guildhalls.  There is gold enough in each one, to make the company rich.
Now this way!  Directly behind the city-hall lies the Zucker Canal.
There live stiff-necked people, who dine off of silver every day.  Notice
the street!"

Then he led him back to the square, and continued "The streets here all
lead to the quay.  Do you know it?  Have you seen the warehouses?  Filled
to the very roof!  The malmsey, dry canary and Indian allspice, might
transform the Scheldt and Baltic Sea into a huge vat of hippocras."

Ulrich followed his guide from street to street.  Wherever he looked, he
saw vast wealth in barns and magazines; in houses, palaces and churches.

Hans Eitelfritz stopped before a jeweller's shop, saying:

"Look here!  I particularly admire these things, these toys: the little
dog, the sled, the lady with the hoopskirt, all these things are pure
silver.  When the pillage begins, I shall grasp these and take them to my
sister's little children in Colln; they will be delighted, and if it
should ever be necessary, their mother can sell them."

What a throng crowded the most aristocratic streets!  English, Spanish,
Italian and Hanseatic merchants tried to outdo the Netherland traders in
magnificent clothes and golden ornaments.  Ulrich saw them all assembled
in the Gothic exchange on the Mere, the handsomest square in the city.
There they stood in the vast open hall, on the checkered marble floor,
not by hundreds, but by thousands, dealing in goods which came from all
quarters of the globe--from the most distant lands.  Their offers and
bids mingled in a noise audible at a long distance, which was borne
across the square like the echo of ocean surges.

Sums were discussed, which even the winged imagination of the lansquenet
could scarcely grasp.  This city was a remarkable treasure, a thousand-
fold richer booty than had been garnered from the Ottoman treasure-ship on
the sea at Lepanto.

Here was the fortune the Eletto needed, to build the palace in which he
intended to place Ruth.  To whom else would fall the lion's share of the
enormous prize!

His future happiness was to arise from the destruction of this proud
city, stifling in its gold.

These were ambitious brilliant plans, but he devised them with gloomy
eyes, in a darkened mind.  He intended to win by force what was denied
him, so long as the power belonged to him.

There could be no lack of flames and carnage; but that was part of his
trade, as shavings belong to flames, hammer-strokes to smiths.

Count Philipp had no suspicion of the assault, was not permitted to
suspect anything.  He attributed Ulrich's agitated manner to the
rejection he had encountered in his father's house, and when he took
leave of him on his departure to Swabia, talked kindly with his former
schoolmate and advised him to leave the Spanish flag and try once more
to be reconciled to the old man.

Before the Eletto quitted the city, he gave Hans Eitelfritz, whose
regiment had secretly joined the mutiny, letters of safeguard for his
family and the artist, Moor.

He had not forgotten the latter, but well-founded timidity withheld him
from appearing before the honored man, while cherishing the gloomy
thoughts that now filled his soul.

In Aalst the mutineers received him with eager joy, harsh and repellent
as he appeared, they cheerfully obeyed him; for he could hold out to them
a prospect, which lured a bright smile to the bearded lips of the
grimmest warrior.

If power was the word, he scarcely understood how to use it aright, for
wholly absorbed in himself, he led a joyless life of dissatisfied longing
and gloomy reverie.

It seemed to him as if he had lost one half of himself, and needed Ruth
to become the whole man.  Hours grew to days, days to weeks, and not
until Roda's messenger appeared from the citadel in Antwerp to summon him
to action, did he revive and regain his old vivacity.





CHAPTER XXX.

On the twentieth of October Mastricht fell into the Spaniards' hands,
and was cruelly pillaged.  The garrison of Antwerp rose and began to
make common cause with the friends of the mutineers in the citadel.

Foreign merchants fled from the imperilled city.  Governor Champagny saw
his own person and the cause of order seriously threatened by the despots
in the fortress, which dominated the town.  A Netherland army, composed
principally of Walloons, under the command of the incapable Marquis
Havre, the reckless de Heze and other nobles appeared before the capital,
to prevent the worst.

Champagny feared that the German regiments would feel insulted and scent
treason, if he admitted the government troops--but the majority of the
lansquenets were already in league with the insurgents, the danger hourly
increased, everywhere loyalty wavered, the citizens urgently pressed the
matter, and the gates were opened to the Netherlanders.

Count Oberstein, the German commander of the lansquenets, who while
intoxicated had pledged himself to make common cause with the mutineers
in the citadel, remembered his duty and remained faithful to the end.
The regiment in which Hans Eitelfritz served, and the other companies of
lansquenets, had succumbed to the temptation, and only waited the signal
for revolt.  The inhabitants felt just like a man, who keeps powder and
firebrands in the cellar, or a traveller, who recognizes robbers and
murderers in his own escort.

Champagny called upon the citizens to help themselves, and used their
labor in throwing up a wall of defence in the open part of the city,
which was most dangerously threatened by the citadel.  Among the men and
women who voluntarily flocked to the work by thousands, were Adam, the
smith, his apprentices, and Ruth.  The former, with his journeymen,
wielded the spade under the direction of a skilful engineer, the girl,
with other women, braided gabions from willow-rods.

She had lived through sorrowful days.  Self-reproach, for having by her
hasty fit of temper caused the father's outburst of anger to his son,
constantly tortured her.

She had learned to hate the Spaniards as bitterly as Adam; she knew that
Ulrich was following a wicked, criminal course, yet she loved him, his
image had been treasured from childhood, unassailed and unsullied, in the
most sacred depths of her heart.  He was all in all to her, the one
person destined for her, the man to whom she belonged as the eye does to
the face, the heart to the breast.

She believed in his love, and when she strove to condemn and forget him,
it seemed as if she were alienating, rejecting the best part of-herself.

A thousand voices told her that she lived in his soul, as much as he did
in hers, that his existence without her must be barren and imperfect.
She did not ask when and how, she only prayed that she might become his,
expecting it as confidently as light in the morning, spring after winter.
Nothing appeared so irrefutable as this faith; it was the belief of her
loving soul.  Then, when the inevitable had happened they would be one in
their aspirations for virtue, and the son could no longer close his heart
against the father, nor the father shut his against the son.

The child's vivid imagination was still alive in the maiden.  Every
leisure hour she had thought of her lost playfellow, every day she had
talked to his father about him, asking whether he would rather see him
return as a famous artist, a skilful smith, or commander of a splendid
ship.

Handsome, strong, superior to other men, he had always appeared.  Now she
found him following evil courses, on the path to ruin; yet even here he
was peerless among his comrades; whatever stain rested upon him, he
certainly was not base and mean.

As a child, she always had transformed him into a splendid fairy-prince,
but she now divested him of all magnificence, seeing him attired in plain
burgher dress, appear humbly before his father and stand beside him at
the forge.  She dreamed that she was by his side, and before her stood
the table she covered with food for him, and the water she gave him after
his work.  She heard the house shake under the mighty blows of his
hammer, and in imagination beheld him lay his curly head in her lap,
and say he had found love and peace with her.

The cannonade from the citadel stopped the citizens' work.  Open
hostilities had begun.

On the morning of November 4th, under the cover of a thick fog, the
treacherous Spaniards, commanded by Romero, Vargas and Valdez entered the
fortress.  The citizens, among them Adam, learned this fact with rage and
terror, but the mutineers of Aalst had not yet collie.

"He is keeping them back," Ruth had said the day before.  "Antwerp, our
home, is sacred to him!"

The cannon roared, culverins crashed, muskets and arquebuses rattled; the
boding notes of the alarm-bells and the fierce shouts of soldiers and
citizens hurrying to battle mingled with the deafening thunder of the
artillery.

Every hand seized a weapon, every shop was closed; hearts stood still
with fear, or throbbed wildly with rage and emotion.  Ruth remained calm.
She detained the smith in the house, repeating her former words:  "The
men from Aalst are not coming; he is keeping diem back."  Just at that
moment the young apprentice, whose parents lived on the Scheldt, rushed
with dishevelled hair into the workshop, gasping:

"The men from Aalst  are here.  They crossed in peatboats and a galley.
They wear green twigs in their helmets, and the Eletto is marching in the
van, bearing the standard.  I saw them; terrible--horrible--sheathed in
iron from top to toe."

He said no more, for Adam, with a savage imprecation, interrupted him,
seized his huge hammer, and rushed out of the house.

Ruth staggered back into the workshop.

Adam hurried straight to the rampart.  Here stood six thousand Walloons,
to defend the half-finished wall, and behind them large bodies of armed
citizens.

"The men from Aalst have come!" echoed from lip to lip.

Curses, wails of grief, yells of savage fury, blended with the thunder of
the artillery and the ringing of the alarm bells.

A fugitive now dashed from the counterscarp towards the Walloons,
shouting:

"They are here, they are here!  The blood-hound, Navarrete, is leading
them.  They will neither eat nor drink, they say, till they dine in
Paradise or Antwerp.  Hark, hark!  there they are!"

And they were there, coming nearer and nearer; foremost of all marched
the Eletto, holding the standard in his upraised hand.

Behind him, from a thousand bearded lips, echoed furious, greedy,
terrible cries; "Santiago, Espana, a sangre, a carne, a fuego, a saco!"
--[St. Jago; Spain, blood, murder, fire, pillage]--but Navarrete was
silent, striding onward, erect and haughty, as if he were proof against
the bullets, that whistled around him on all sides.  Consciousness of
power and the fierce joy of battle sparkled in his eyes.  Woe betide him,
who received a blow from the two-handed sword the Eletto still held over
his shoulder, now with his left hand.

Adam stood with upraised hammer beside the front ranks of the Walloons!
his eyes rested as if spellbound on his approaching son and the standard
in his hand.  The face of the guilty woman, who had defrauded him of the
happiness of his life, gazed at him from the banner.  He knew not whether
he was awake, or the sport of some bewildering dream.

Now, now his glance met the Eletto's, and unable to restrain himself
longer, he raised his hammer and tried to rush forward, but the Walloons
forced him back.

Yes, yes, he hated his own child, and trembling with rage, burning to
rush upon him, he saw the Eletto spring on the lowest projection of the
wall, to climb up.  For a short time he was concealed from his eyes, then
he saw the top of the standard, then the banner itself, and now his son
stood on the highest part of the rampart, shouting: "Espana, Espana!"