could wish was attained, and his father's "More, farther," had lost
all meaning for her.

She could meet her happy son as a happy mother; she said this to herself
with a long breath. These thoughts had animated her restless half
slumber during the nocturnal drive, and she still dwelt upon them all
the following day.

Toward evening they reached Luxemburg. At the gate, where every carriage
was stopped, the guards asked her name.

At the reply the inspector of taxes bowed profoundly, and signed to the
Spanish officer behind him.

He was waiting for her, by the command of the captain-general, who
longed to see her, and with the utmost courtesy undertook the office of
guide.

Then the carriage rolled on again, and turned into the magnificent park
of a palace, which belonged to the royal governor, Prince Peter Ernst
von Mansfeld.

A gentleman dressed in black, whose bright eyes revealed an active mind,
while the expression of his well-formed features inspired confidence,
Don John's private secretary, Escovedo, of whose shrewdness and fidelity
Barbara had often heard, ushered her into the apartments assigned to
her.

In two hours, he said, the captain-general would be happy to receive
her. He first wished her to rest completely after the fatiguing journey.

Barbara dismissed, without making use of their services, the pages whom
he placed at her disposal. The more than luxurious meal which was served
soon afterward she scarcely touched; the impetuous throbbing of her
heart choked her breathing so that she could scarcely speak to Lamperi.

With eager zeal the maid tried to induce her to put on the fresh and
extremely tasteful Brussels gala robe. The candlesticks, with the
dozens of candles, the elegant silver dishes, the whole manner of the
reception, led her to make the suggestion. But Barbara had scarcely
noticed these magnificent things.

Her every thought and feeling centred upon the son whom she was now
actually to see with her own eyes, whose hand she would touch, whose
voice she would hear.

The splendid costume did not suit such a meeting after a long
separation, so solemn a festal hour of the heart.

A heavy black silk which she had brought was more appropriate for this
occasion. Only she allowed the pomegranate blossoms, which had remained
perfectly fresh, to be fastened on her breast, that her dress might not
look like mourning. While Lamperi was putting the last touches to her
toilet, a priest came