r eyes from
her lover's face, which was brightly illumined by a pyramid of candles
on each side of the two thrones.

Every trace of weariness, indifference, and discomfort had vanished from
Charles's features. His heart, like hers--she knew it--was now throbbing
higher. If he had just been enduring pain, this singing must have driven
it away or lessened it, and he had certainly felt gratefully what power
dwells in the divine art.

This noble composition, Barbara realized it, would again draw her near
her lover, and the confirmation of this hope was not delayed, for as
soon as the last notes of the motet and the storm of applause that
followed had died away, the Emperor, amid the renewed roar of the
artillery, rose and looked around him--surely for her.

The good citizens of Ratisbon! No matter how much more bunting they had
cut up in honour of the Saxon duke than of the Emperor, how bombastic
were the verses composed and repeated in praise of Maurice, this paean
of homage put all their efforts to shame. It suited only one, lauded
a grandeur and dignity which stood firm as indestructible cliffs, and
which no one here possessed save the Emperor Charles.

Who would have ventured to apply this motet to the brave and clever
Saxon, high as he, too, towered above most of his peers? What did the
nations of the earth know about him? How small was the world still that
was full of his renown!

This singing had reminded both princes of Barbara, and they looked for
her. The Emperor perceived her first, beckoned kindly to her, and, after
conversing with her for a while so graciously that it aroused the envy
of the other ladies in the tent, he said eagerly: "Not sung amiss for
your Ratisbon, I should think. But how this superb composition was
sung six years ago at Catnbray, under the direction of Courtois
himself!--that, yes, that is one of the things never to be forgotten.
Thirty-four singers, and what power, what precision, and, moreover, the
great charm of novelty! I have certainly been permitted to hear many
things----"

Here he paused; the Cardinal of Trent was approaching with the Bishop of
Arras.

The younger Granvelle, with his father, had also been present at
the performance of this motet of homage at Cambray, and respectfully
confirmed his Majesty's remark, speaking with special warmth of the
fervour and delicacy with which Jean Courtois had conducted the choir.

The cardinal had no wish to detract from the merits