ip had yet reached no determination.

Barbara spent the month of October in depression caused by this
fresh disappointment, but it, too, passed without bringing her any
satisfaction.

It seemed almost foolish to lull herself further with ambitious
expectations, but the hope a mother's heart cherishes for her child does
not die until its last throb; and if the Emperor Charles's will did not
give her John his rights, then the gracious Virgin would secure them, if
necessary, by a miracle.

Her faithful clinging to hope was rewarded, for when one day, with
drooping head, she returned home from another futile errand, she found
Hannibal Melas there, as bearer of important news.

The Emperor's last will had a codicil, which concerned a son of his
Majesty; but, a few days before his end, Charles had also remembered
Barbara, and commissioned Ogier Bodart, Adrian's successor, to buy a
life annuity for her in Brussels. Hannibal had learned all this from
secret despatches received by Granvelle the day before. Informing her of
their contents might cost him his place; but how often she had entreated
him to think of her if any news came from Valladolid of a boy named
Geronimo or John, and how much kindness she had showed him when he was
only a poor choir boy!

At last, at last the most ardent desire of the mother's heart was to be
fulfilled. She saw in the codicil the bridge which would lead her son
to splendour and magnificence, and up to the last hour of his life the
Emperor Charles had also remembered her.

She felt not only relieved of a burden, but as if borne on wings. Which
of these two pieces of news rendered her the happier, she could not have
determined. Yet she did not once think of the addition to her income.
What was that in comparison to the certainty that to the last Charles
did not forget her!

It made her husband happy to see her sunny cheerfulness. Never had she
played and romped with the children in such almost extravagant mirth.
Nay, more! For the first time the officer's modest house echoed with the
singing of its mistress.

Though her voice was no longer so free from sharpness and harshness as
in the old days, it by no means jarred upon the ear; nay, every tone
revealed its admirable training. She had broken the long silence
with Josquin's motet, "Quia amore langueo," and in her quiet chamber
dedicated it, as it were, to the man to whom this cry of longing had
been so dear. Then, in memory of and gratit