for her, as Escovedo had arranged, exactly two
hours after her arrival. This was Father Dorante, Don John's confessor,
an elderly man with a face in which earnest piety was so happily mingled
with kindly cheerfulness that Barbara rejoiced to know that such a
guardian of souls was at her son's side.

While he was descending the stairs with her, Barbara noticed one of the
searching glances he secretly cast at her, and wondered what this man's
pure, keen eyes had probably discovered.

The spacious apartment into which she was now ushered was hung with
costly bright-hued Oriental rugs.

"Gifts from the widow of the Turkish lord high admiral," the priest
whispered, pointing to the superb textures, and Barbara nodded. She
knew how he had obtained them, but the passionate agitation of her soul
deprived her of the power to inform the monk of this knowledge, of which
probably she would usually have boasted to a friend of her son so worthy
of all respect.

The folding doors of the adjoining room were open. Surely John was
there, and how gladly she would have rushed toward it! But the confessor
asked her to sit down, as the captain-general still had several orders
to give. Then he entered the other room.

Barbara, panting for breath, looked after him and, as she glanced
through the open door, it seemed as though her heart stood still.

Yonder aristocratic gentleman, in the full prime of youthful beauty,
must be her son.

The man from whom she had so long been parted looked like the apparition
of the Count Egmont, at whom she had once gazed full of admiration, with
the wish that her John might resemble him; only she thought her John,
with his open brow and floating, waving golden locks, far handsomer than
the unfortunate victor of St. Quentin and Gravelines.

How noble and yet how easy was the bearing of the dignitary, who was
still less than thirty years old!

His figure was only slightly above middle height. What gave it the air
of such royal stateliness?

Certainly it was not merely his dress, which consisted wholly of velvet,
silk, and satin, with the gold of the Fleece that hung below the lace
ruff at his throat. True, the colours of the costume were becoming.
Dark violet and golden yellow alternated in the slashed doublet and wide
breeches. His father had worn similar apparel when he confessed his love
for her.

Should Barbara regard this as a good omen or an evil one?

He was not yet aware of her arrival for,